Randy's Thoughts
by Randy Taylor
Summary: Summary inside.
1. Prologue: September 6, 1997

Innocent

Randy's Thoughts

Summary:

It's 1997, and Tim is dead. This severely affects the entire family, but especially Randy, who thinks there is more than meets the eye to his dad's death. So Randy is talked into seeing a psychiatrist, who suggests keeping a bi-weekly journal of Randy's thoughts and feelings. These are those entries.

Prologue

Journal Entry for Saturday September 6, 1997

Where do I begin? Well, I'm not doing this out of free will; I'm only doing this to humor the psychiatrist I'm seeing twice a week.

First off, my name is Randy Taylor. (Yes, Tim 'The Toolman' Taylor's middle son). I'm 15 years old. I have a girlfriend, who is the one who talked me into seeing this damn psychiatrist anyways. My older brother is a total jock and my younger brother is a possible devil worshipper and dresses like Johnny Cash. My mom is going to school to become a psychiatrist. And, oh yeah, did I forget to mention my recently deceased father?

His death is the **only** reason I'm seeing the man I will refer to from here on out as "my damn psychiatrist".

Anyways, back to my dad's death. He didn't die the way most of his fans expected him to. He is supposedly the innocent victim of a drive-by shooting on a highway. In my opinion, there are two theories for his death: The Detroit PD is correct, and he's just an innocent victim. Or, (and here's the one I'm leaning towards), he was meant to be shot. I get the feeling there's some past family secret which has been kept not only from me, but from everyone except my next door neighbor, Wilson W. Wilson, and my mother. This theory has got me dubbed insane by my family.

Hmmm… Maybe this journal will be useful. Maybe this will be a way for me to sort out not only my father's death, but my life. Or it could just be some psycho mumbo jumbo to get me to spill my guts to my damn psychiatrist. Either way, I'm glad no one will ever be able to read this except him.

-Randy

A/N I'm aware these chapters are short, so I'll usually post two or three chapters at a time. Also, please R&R, just bear in mind that this is the first fan fiction I've ever even attempted to write. All suggestions are welcome for the story.


	2. Chapter 1: September 12, 1997

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Journal Entry for Friday September 12, 1997

I'm getting ready to see my damn psychiatrist now. Which means I have only 40 minutes to come up with a decent journal entry here.

My dad's funeral was yesterday, and let me tell you, it wasn't easy. My mom just bawled the entire time. I cried some, but not a lot. That's typical for me though. I'm just not a big crier when people die. It's just not my way of coping with the loss of a loved one. My grandma (Tim's mother) was there. She didn't cry much either. Really it was more of a dry sob in her case.

I still feel emotionally numb, like I can't even believe that any of this is happening. I just feel like I'm partially responsible. Like I could have done something to keep this from happening. Now, I know this is impossible, but still… Let's see, who else was there? Of course my dad's brothers were, Al and Heidi and Lisa were there. Wilson was there too. Obviously my brothers were there.

I'm not sleeping much at night, even though my damn psychiatrist has prescribed me some sort of narcotic (which I refuse to take because I don't want to get addicted).

You know, I've always thought it was funny how people bring food to the family when someone dies. Nobody in the family feels like eating if someone just died. It just annoys me. I mean, I swear to God, the next person who gives us a damn loaf of bread will get it shoved down there fucking throat! I just wonder how dad would be reacting if he was here to see all of the things going on. He'd probably want to know why no one has brought us Polish food from Stan's.

Well, I guess my 40 minutes is just about up.

-Randy


	3. Chapter 2: September 16, 1997

Randy's Thoughts Chapter 2

Journal Entry for Tuesday September 16, 1997

I don't have too terribly much to write about today. Nothing happened over the weekend really.

My mom did tell me I have to start school next Monday (which I dread the thought of). I suppose I'll just make the best of being alone the next few days (Brad and Mark have already insisted on going back).

I enjoy being by myself through the day, and sometimes at night. I know I used to be afraid of the dark, but over the past two weeks, the dark has seemed unusually welcoming. But anyways, I like to be alone so I can enjoy the silence. That way, I can control how loud the TV or stereo is, and I can determine how much noise there is coming from human beings. Being alone also gives me some time to reflect on life in general. But, enough of that sadistic talk.

I haven't eaten much since I found out the news about my dad. I haven't really done anything other than sit on bed and try my best to console my mom. Wilson has offered to talk to me. Just what I need…another damn psychiatrist. No, Wilson would be different. Maybe I should talk to him. Maybe I could dig up some dirt on the Taylor family pre-Randy.

I hate to admit it, but I think this goddamn journal might actually be helping a little bit. I feel the best I have now since September 2 at around 2 a.m. (that's when I found out about my dad). And may I request that my damn psychiatrist disregard this paragraph.

Now, due to the steady badgering of my mom and my damn psychiatrist, I will share the last memory I have of my father.

FLASHBACK

September 2, 10:30 pm

I'm sitting on the couch, listening to the very end of a Live Dave Matthews Band album, Mark has gone to his bedroom, and Brad is at some party. Mom is studying for a psych test, and dad is screwing around with the Healey (doing God knows what). Just as my CD ends, he comes into the house and announces he's going to the grocery store to get some milk for breakfast tomorrow morning. I say sure. Mom tells him bye, and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.

END FLASHBACK

This is the last memory I have of my father. I just feel guilty as hell that I didn't have a more meaningful last moment with him.

The next time I saw my dad was at the funeral home, when we were deciding what to have my dad wear.

-Randy

A/N I'll have a couple more chapters up tomorrow. As always, please R&R.


	4. Chapter 3: September 18, 1997

Chapter 3

Journal Entry for Thursday September 18, 1997

I feel like hell warmed over. I haven't slept a decent night's sleep in over 2 weeks now. I am actually seriously debating taking one of the little pills that my damn psychiatrist gave me.

No one's up now. Its 4:16 a.m. according to my alarm clock. Like I said last time, the dark just seems so welcoming and cozy.

That's funny. I would've sworn I just saw something out of the corner of my eye. It almost looked like my dad. It must just be the lack of sleep getting to me finally. Maybe tonight I will take one of those damn pills. It ought to satisfy my damn psychiatrist.

According to him, he just wants to see me get better, physically and mentally. Well, here's my thoughts on that: fuck him! He doesn't know how fucking bad I feel. His father is still alive according to him. His mother as well.

I swear I just saw that ghost again. Maybe I am insane…. No! No, I can't start thinking like that. If I do, then it just proves everyone who tries to psychoanalyze me right. And I don't want that to happen. I just need sleep. Then I can think clearer. Hopefully.

I know what I said before, but I'm about sick of doing this goddamn journal. I could think of a really good place for my damn psychiatrist to shove it while I'm not writing in it though.

-Randy

A/N I will honestly try to make the chapters longer from here on out. The only reasons they're so short is because:

1. They're journal entries, and journal entries aren't typically long

2. I'm still kind of honing my writing skills.


	5. Chapter 4: September 21, 1997

Chapter 4

Journal Entry for Sunday September 21, 1997

Sunday morning. Wow. This certainly brings back memories. Waking up at 6:00 so we can go to church as a family. But, for the past 6 months, I've become kind of weary about organized religion. Not weary about God, just organized religion. I never did say anything to my parents though.

I haven't gone to church since before my dad died. Try as mom might, she isn't going to make me go to church this morning.

I don't feel much anger towards God or the Devil or any other religious figure for my dad's death. If anything, I'm angry at my dad for even being there at the damn highway.

I do miss waking up and smelling mom's homemade silver dollar pancakes. That was the one thing she never screwed up when she was cooking. But, unfortunately it was the one thing that she cooked the least. Maybe not, but that's the way it always seemed.

Now I decide to go upstairs and read. I grab a fresh pair of boxers to change into, and don't even worry about jeans. After all, no one will be up for about another two hours. I grab the new Midnight Louie book (Cat in a Flamingo Fedora). Lauren gave me that book for our one year anniversary of dating. I haven't talked to her in a while. Maybe I'll give her a call tomorrow after she gets out of school.

That's all for now, I'll write some more later while Mark, Brad, and mom are at church.

* * *

Now my head's starting to pound. Great, just what I need a migraine. When I get these things I just go insane or something. I don't think, talk, or even feel like myself.

Maybe I should choose to break these entries up more often. I'll write a little more tonight when I will unsuccessfully attempt to sleep.

In the meantime, I'll just lay down and try to get rid of this damn migraine.

* * *

My damn head still hurts. I still feel insane. I must be, I've decided to do it. I'm going to take one of those little pills. Well, I don't know, one might not be enough for me. Maybe…well let's see….there's 10 of these little bitches…how bout…aw hell, I'll take'em all. My life can't get anymore screwed up, right? I'll just grab that big bottle of Captain Morgan rum mom has upstairs, then work on these little pills. Then if I don't get any sleep, I never will.

A/N: A little bit of a cliffhanger, eh? I really am trying to make these chapters longer, at least word-wise. I'll try to update before I go to bed tonight. (Around ten or so).


	6. Chapter 5: September 22, 1997

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

A/N This chapter is a different format than in the past few chapters. This is Jill doing a bit of reflecting on the next morning.

I knew something was wrong when Randy wasn't up early. I knew he hadn't been sleeping a lot lately. So I went down to his room, thinking maybe his body finally just shut itself down to recharge for a little while.

I entered his room, and the lights were all out except for his desk light. Next to his bed lay a bottle of Captain Morgan rum and the little bottle of sleeping pills that Dr. Caine Dickerson had prescribed for Randy. All I could think was "Oh my God, just please let him be alright! I can't stand to lose both my husband and middle son in the same year, let alone the same damn month". I swear, if he comes around from his comatose state, I'm gonna kick his ass into the next century.

I started screaming bloody murder. Brad heard me and came rushing down stairs and saw Randy. He grabbed the phone and called 911. Then he helped me carry Randy upstairs so the paramedics could get to him faster.

I had Wilson look after Brad and Mark, while I'm here at the county hospital, going out of my brain with worry.

Now I wonder if maybe I should call Lauren and let her know what's going on with Randy. Maybe later, I don't have any change for the pay phones.

I feel like a slut the way I'm dressed. (A top I haven't worn in 6 years and a pair of jeans too tight for for even Daisy Duke to squeeze her ass into).

I checked my watch. 9:17 a.m. Next I see a doctor approaching me.

"Ms. Taylor" he begins. Uh-oh. This can't be good. I can tell by the look on the doctor's face. Dr. Ross Carter is how he introduces himself. As long as he can help my little Randy undo this horrible deed, I don't care if he's Dr. Jack Kevorkian.

"Ms. Taylor" he begins again. "Your son basically induced himself into a coma. He mixed the rum and the Ambien, which was a mistake. Then, judging by his stomach contents, he took four acetaminophen with codeine. Ms. Taylor, this may seem hard to accept, but from my personal experience, and these circumstances, I believe your son was trying to commit suicide".

I was dumbstruck. I knew Randy was upset, but not enough to try to take his life. I am definitely talking to him about this if (when I mean) he gets out of this coma.

Dear Lord in Heaven, I know I don't pray as often as I should, but I really hope you hear this one for Randy's sake. I just want him to be alright, and to come out of his coma. And, if he does, I hope this is a learning experience for him.

-Jill

A/N: I was going to wait until after ER tonight to update (I go to bed after ER), but I decided I couldn't. Please let me know how everybody liked this chapter. I need to know if I should do more chapters from other people's views. I'm also considering doing some Randy POV chapters that are similar to this.


	7. Chapter 6: November 2, 1997

Chapter 6

Journal Entry for Sunday November 2, 1997

It's me again. I know what everyone is thinking. How stupid do you have to be to pull something like that? Don't you even give a damn about your poor mother? Well, I give a damn about consoling her, but, really, I only cause problems for her, and her life would be a lot less stressful without me. And, frankly, my life would be a lot less stressful without me.

I'm home now. (My mom decided to just get me a tutor since I've already missed so much school between my dad's death and my near death). What to do, what to do? Maybe I could go over and talk to Wilson. I never did that a couple of months ago like I thought about. I'll do that, and then write back later.

* * *

Well, that went well. I thought maybe Wilson would be in a truth telling mood, but, alas, he wasn't. I didn't get much information. Just that my dad was arrested for dealing drugs 3 years before I was born. Surely he didn't go back to his old ways, right? I mean, he made a lot of money doing Tool Time, why would he need to? Unless he was using drugs.

So now I'm home alone again. I turn on the TV. It's 2 o'clock. Not much on, so I flip it off. Next I write a note, saying I've gone out for a walk. I write down the time, and say I'll be back in a couple of hours.

As I exit my house, I feel different. I feel like someone is watching me. I shove my worries to the back of my head though, and continue on. This cold air sure does feel kind of good. I stop by the Dairy Queen and buy a large strawberry shake, and exit the restaurant. Then I nearly burst into tears. I remember dad used to take all three of us kids there on the way home from the Y. However, I manage to regain my composure.

As I continue on my way, just aimlessly wandering, it begins to snow. I figure I'd better turn back early, so nobody gets worried about me.

While I stamp my feet on the red and green mat outside proudly declaring "WELCOME", I notice the snow worsen. Before too long, the snow storm became a full fledged Michigan winter blizzard.

Fuck! Just now, for the first time I realize what date today is. It is the second. That means it is the 2 month anniversary of…my dad dying. I was really honestly feeling a little bit better about this until that dawned on me.

Which reminds me. This morning my mom got a call from the DA's office. The lead prosecutor (Jon-Joel Weiss) is going to try to indict the two people accused of shooting my dad on a charge each of manslaughter in the first degree. Actually, it was the second chair prosecutor (Diane Early) that called. I don't much care for Mr. Weiss, but Ms. Early seems very caring and kind.

I need to do something to try to calm down. Maybe I'll give Lauren a call.

* * *

I just tried to call Lauren. Her line was busy. I'll just try back later. God I really hope I haven't done anything to piss her off. She is the last person on earth who I feel I can connect with, not to mention my (hopefully) wife to be.

All of a sudden I get a craving for some Polish food from Stan's. You know, I've read that if a deceased loved one's spirit is hanging around you, they can actually make you have cravings for food that that deceased person enjoyed in life. (Wow, that last sentence sounded cheesy, huh?)

Now I hear tires squealing. That means mom let Brad drive home. Now _I'm_ pissed. She'd never have let me done anything like drive home in this kind of weather. Oh well.

-Randy

A/N BTW, if anyone has any suggestions for the next chapter, just send me a PM and if I choose to use the idea (any part of it), then I'll give you credit at the end of the chapter.


	8. Chapter 7: November 7, 1997

Chapter 7

Journal Entry for Friday November 7, 1997

I really need to stop trying to write these damn entries an hour before I go see my damn psychiatrist.

Unfortunately, my life just got a little more fucked up than it already was. Mom found a Ziploc baggie filled to the brim with marijuana in Brad's car. She started grilling Brad first, and he admitted first to just storing it. Then he admitted to occasionally smoking the pot. Next she grilled me, and, of course, I have nothing to admit to. Amazingly enough, she believed me. Mark was the last to be questioned, and he claims to only be smoking cigarettes.

I just can't believe their stupidity. I'll admit my taking ten Tylenol with codeine and drinking an entire bottle of Captain Morgan rum was extremely stupid, but that kind of thing can be pumped out of your body. (I know that is still no excuse for a sane, ration able person to do something that idiotic). Last time I checked though, all of the bad shit in cigarettes and marijuana can't get pumped out of one's body.

I called Lauren yesterday and talked to her for the first time since before I was in the hospital. She told me that she is definitely not pissed off; just a little shocked that I would do something like attempting suicide. Not surprisingly, her first question for me was: "Were you having one of your migraines at the time you tried this?" That one definitely threw me for a loop. I mulled it over for a few seconds, imagining every possible outcome for each possible answer. There were three main options for answers:

A. Lie

B. Tell the truth

C. Tell the partial truth, and say I was just having a bad headache.

Well, I couldn't lie to Lauren, not only would I feel horrible; she would detect the lie in an instant, so A was out. If I went with C, Lauren would figure out something was missing from the story, therefore leaving me with B as the only option. I expected her to launch into some sympathetic pep talk and suggest seeing another goddamn member of the fucking so called "health care system". Instead, the only immediate reply I received was a huge sigh. We talked for a few more minutes, but that sigh was really the end of our conversation.

Sometimes I feel like I'm stuck in a sea full of Jell-O and the harder I wade, the farther away from the shore I get pushed. And my damn psychiatrist just doesn't seem to realize how I feel. He has no idea what its like to feel like you don't even have a scintilla of control over anything going on in your life.

P.S. Since I know that my nosy son of a bitch damn psychiatrist will read this as soon as he can get his grubby little paws on it, the feeling of a lack of control sucks.

Great. Here I go with another damn migraine. This time, I'm taking something for it. I'm not going to even pull any kinda shit close to what I did a few months ago. Well, at least I have an excuse to be a bitch to my damn psychiatrist today. (Besides the fact that he's a stupid fuckin' bastard who only cares about the money he makes and his stupid fuckin' medical degree hanging on his wall).

Anyhow, the hour's up. I hear mom now coming down the stairs to remind me its time to leave. Pfft. Like I could forget.

-Randy

A/N: See, I wasn't lying. I really can consistently produce long chapters! Anyways, R&R, and as always, all suggestions are welcome.

Yours truly, Randy Taylor.


	9. Chapter 8: November 11, 1997

Chapter 8

Randy's Thoughts

Journal Entry for Tuesday November 11, 1997

Now I have something to treat my migraines. It's called Amitriptyline. It's supposed to according to my damn psychiatrist "kick your fing migraines' a". I only censor those because that's the way he put it. (No, apparently he doesn't openly cuss). He did warn me not to try anything with these like I did with the Ambien. Well, I don't plan on doing anything like that I again. I just want to kick my own ass for being so stupid, and I know my mom does.

I just found out today that my dad's trial is set to start on November 24, a Monday. Luckily, no one in the family will have to testify, according to Ms. Early.

My bi-weekly tutoring sessions with Wilson are still going. Once a week I go over to his house, then the other time, he comes over here. He's a great teacher though. He hardly ever assigns much homework, and really knows the subjects he's teaching. (Sometimes his knowledge is a major downfall though). Every once in a while, he'll get off on a tangent or start ranting or raving on something. But, he always apologizes and gets back on subject. And frankly, he's more qualified than some of the department chairs at Lakeside High.

Brad got in trouble and is now on regular drug testing. She caught him smoking more marijuana. Sometimes I just wonder what the fuck is going on that guy's mind. The worst part is, he tried to deny that he was smoking marijuana when he reeked of that shit.

I'm gonna write back later, NYPD Blue is on now, and tonight's episode looks especially good. (Yes, my mom still lets me watch the show even though it seems the cast runs around naked half the damn time. This is only because she's never watched a single episode of it).

* * *

What should I listen to while I write this? Hmm… Let's see what new CDs I have to choose from…

South Saturn Delta by Jimi Hendrix

The Big Picture by Elton John

Sehnsucht by Rammstein

The Dance by Fleetwood Mac

Straight on Till Morning by Blues Traveler

Hmm. I'm in kind of a funky mood; I think I'll go with The Big Picture. Or maybe just listen to part of that, then part of Sehnsucht. Yeah, that's what I'll do.

So, anyways. What to write about, what to write about.

My Aunt Linda stopped by today. (She's the one who has the psychics, and the cat that plays the piano, and loves to put God knows what kind of herbs into everything imaginable, and hates Hank Pfefferman). She gave my mom some fish oil capsules that are supposed to help arthritic people manage their arthritis. She gave me a year's supply of fresh ginger root, which is supposed to help treat migraines. I'm supposed to take 3 to 5 milligrams of it a day. (I'm still not sure whether I put it in food, or water, or if I just swallow it).

Listening to this Elton John album makes me wonder where my old Lion King soundtrack is. I know Sir Elton did the music for that movie, and I believe he has a couple of tracks on the soundtrack. I loved the movie too. I especially liked the performance of Jonathan Taylor Thomas as Young Simba. Jonathan Taylor Thomas is by far one of the best actors ever, and seems like a damn nice guy too.

I wish I knew Jonathan Taylor Thomas. That would be awesome. But, why would Jonathan Taylor Thomas even want to be friends with me? I mean, I'm just plain old Randall William Taylor. And he would probably die of laughter if he ever saw Tool Time. He'd think it should be called Fool Time probably.

Damn. I just realized I forgot to switch over to Rammstein. I listened to the entire Elton John album. Oh well, it was worth it. I absolutely love Elton John. (His music that is! Not him). Well, I mean, I don't love him. I think he's a nice person, but, I don't go in for that kind of thing. (Not that there's anything wrong with that).

You know, I may not understand a goddamn thing on any of Rammstein's CD, but it just sounds really cool.

My mom can't stand it, but she never seems to like the current trends in music. (Of course, look at me. It's 1997 and I still listen to Elton John and Jimi Hendrix and Fleetwood Mac). I mean, two years ago when the Macarena was popular, she banned the song from our house. Little did she know, I secretly bought the single and listened to it for weeks on end.

Well, that's all I can think of to write for now.

-Randy

A/N: Both of the cures that Linda brought the Taylors are actually supposed to work. My mom takes fish oil pills for her arthritis, and I've read that ginger root is good to prevent and sometimes help treat migraines. If you don't believe me, try it. Anyways, as always (wow I just used three words that start with "a" consecutively. Cool.), please R&R.

Yours truly, Randy Taylor.


	10. Chapter 9: November 14, 1997

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Journal Entry for Friday November 14, 1997

I feel particularly good today. Of course I just finished listening to The Chain on Fleetwood Mac's album The Dance. (The Chain is my favorite song that they sing).

I've been taking the ginger root Aunt Linda gave me. I just swallow it with water like you would a pill. It tastes awful (at least I think so), but it seems to be helping my headaches, so I keep taking it.

Brad seems to be getting worse though. He's going through the withdrawal stage. I mean, last night, in the middle of the night, Brad came down to my room and asked me to go with him to buy marijuana. I just told him hell fucking no. It pissed him off, but I even threatened to tell mom what he was doing if he tried to leave.

Mark hasn't listened to mom, and is even now openly smoking. He even tried to blackmail mom into buying cigarettes for him. He said if she doesn't buy him any, he'll just steal them. She just told him fine, she hopes he gets busted in the process.

I feel sorry for the poor woman. Her whole life is spiraling out of control. It's hard to believe just a mere two and a half months ago, she was a typical 40 year old woman. I can sympathize with her on her life spiraling out of control. Now most of her hair is gray. She's even had to start looking for work. (We've been living off of my dad's savings and a monthly check from Binford for the past two months). We are lucky though, Binford insisted on paying for the funeral for my dad.

This may be nothing, but last night I was coming upstairs to get a glass of iced tea, and I heard her laughing with someone on the phone. She heard me coming, and I could hear her whisper into the phone "Bye sweetie, I'll talk to you later". Surely she isn't seeing someone. I mean, my God, it's only been two months since my father's death. I think that's kind of slutty, and disrespectful to my dad, but what do I know?

It just dawned on me. This is going to be the first time ever my dad won't be carving the Taylor family turkey on Thanksgiving. That's going to be hard to watch. (Harder than normal that is, but I won't start in on my anti-meat rant).

I don't think we even have anything to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. Oh, sure, our lives, yeah. We should be thankful for our miserable, pathetic lives.

And I found out a couple of days ago that my dad's murder trial has been moved up to this next Monday. I suppose I should be glad. I just want to get the fucking thing over with.

Shit. Here we go again. I would swear I just saw a ghost or something out of the corner of my eye. This is driving me crazy.

Aunt Linda called yesterday, and offered to move in with us to help out my mom with housework, cooking (Yes!), et cetera. My mom told her she'd have to think it over. That's the last thing I need. I love animals, but I swear to God, if that cat of her's starts to play our piano, I will strangle the little son of a bitch.

Oh fuck! Fuck! I feel like I just got hit in the head with a fucking brick. And it isn't because of the Jimi Hendrix CD I'm listening to.

I guess I'll go take my first amitriptyline. Goddamn Linda, I thought you said the fucking ginger root would make my head feel better.

-Randy

A/N: It doesn't seem like much happened in this chapter right now, but in a few chapters you'll understand the significance of this one. Please R&R, and again, if you have ideas, go ahead and share them with me. (Not that I'm as desperate as I was though).

-Yours truly Randy Taylor.


	11. Chapter 10: November 18, 1997

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Journal Entry for Tuesday November 18, 1997

Yesterday was the first day of the trial. I was there, seeing as how I don't have school. I think that the evidence that Assistant DA Early presented was very damning against the two men who killed my father. (Their names are Joakim Paris and Bill Butts). I just hope the jury feels the same way.

This is the third day in a row I've woken up with a headache. It's just getting ridiculous. At this rate, I'm gonna need more amitriptyline from my damn psychiatrist. Actually, as much as I've taken, it's a miracle that I still wake up in the morning.

I've also noticed that my hair's starting to fall out because of the constant level of stress in my life. Great. Now I'll be fatherless, insane, having migraines everyday, and bald. Life is a bitch.

Maybe I'll write a little more later.

* * *

A/N: This part of the chapter takes place on the day of November 19. It's at the trial, and is from Randy's POV. Enjoy.

The prosecution and the defense have just made their closing statements to the jury. The judge is in the middle of addressing them when I notice a security guard in the back of the court go for his gun. All of a sudden, shots ring out. The man keeps firing as everyone ducks down. I see someone on the jury get shot in the chest, and the judge takes a bullet to his hand. Both drop down instantly.

Next I hear the sound get louder. The shooter must be getting closer to me. Then I feel the worst pain I've ever felt in my entire life. I put my hand up to my forehead. The last thing I feel is blood pouring out of the direct center of my head.

* * *

A/N: This is now from Jill's POV. (Yes, I know that readers aren't crazy about Jill's POV, but I need to do this so the rest of the story will make sense).

I hear the shooting getting closer. I'm sitting right next to Randy, so it's the same horrifying type of experience he's going through.

Then I see Randy fall limp to the ground. Blood is covering his face. I glance around frantically, but can't find the bullet. Maybe it's just hidden in a pool of blood. I can hope, right?

Finally! I see another (hopefully a real) security guard come running in. He shoots the dirty cop in the foot, and then runs over to arrest the other guard.

Next I hear sirens wailing in the distance. I stand up, and run over to the second guard.

'Please sir, you have to help. My son's over there, he got shot in the head. He's passed out, and he needs medical attention NOW!' I scream.

I know everyone thinks they need immediate medical attention if they've been hurt, but damn it, Randy really needs the medical attention.

The guard runs over to where we were sitting and checks Randy's vitals. He then gets the attention of the first set of paramedics to come in, and before I know it, Randy is being whisked off to the same hospital as he was a couple of months ago.

* * *

Later on at the hospital:

Randy isn't doing well. He's still in surgery to get the bullet removed. Apparently the bullet is in a very sensitive part of the brain. (That's all that the doctor said). If the surgeons make one wrong move, it could have "serious repercussions" according to the Chief of Emergency Medicine.

I can't believe that here my son is again, fighting for his life. Is this some kind of curse or something?

Ugh. Poor Randy. It's always been him to have the health problems. As a baby, he had colic, then a few years later we found out he had asthma. Then a couple of years ago, we had the whole cancer scare, and that's when we found out he has hypothyroidism.

This just feels like déjà vu. Here I am again, not knowing whether or not Randy will live to see tomorrow.

Maybe I should just calm down. It feels like I'm giving myself an ulcer over this. Oh man. This pain is getting worse. Oh shit. Now my left arm's hurting. Oh God, I can't be having a heart attack. I'm too young.

* * *

A/N: This last part is from the view of a doctor. Enjoy.

I'm standing at the nurse's station doing charts when I see a woman in chairs grimace. It looks like she's having severe pain, so I head over to her to see what's wrong. Then I see her start to clutch her left arm. Well, at this point it doesn't take an attending to figure out what's happening. She's having a heart attack.

'Somebody get a gurney' I yell.

I grab the nearest crash cart and try to resuscitate the woman. It doesn't work, so I charge the cart up to a higher voltage.

A/N: I'm good when it comes to cliffhangers, aren't I? I know I have several people's points of view in this chapter and I know some readers don't like that, but, hey I'm certainly fulfilling the angst genre I gave this story, right? And also, I know the shooting might seem a little farfetched, but they don't call it fan fiction for nothing. Please R&R. Thanks.


	12. Chapter 11: November 21, 1997

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Friday November 21, 1997

A/N This chapter is from Randy's POV.

I can feel someone shaking my arm. I try to open my eyes, but can't muster up the strength to.

Instead I just move my hand enough so that the shaker knows that I'm conscious.

'Randy, can you hear me? You need to try to open your eyes' says an anonymous voice.

Ugh. My head is pounding. I don't feel like myself. It's like I'm a stranger in my own skin. It's just different. I don't feel like Randy.

The mystery voice calls again. 'Randy, open your eyes. I know it'll be hard, but you have to try'.

So I try. I open them about half way and immediately want to close them again. But I don't.

'Randy, I'm Dr. Archer. I'm going to raise the back of your bed to where you're sitting up, alright?' Dr. Archer didn't ask, but said.

I slowly sat up, moving along with the bed.

After a few minutes, Dr. Archer offers me some ice chips. I accept. The coldness soothes my dry throat.

'Randy, I have two pieces of bad news to tell you' Dr. Archer says to me. I can tell by the look on his face and by the tone of his voice that it was extremely bad news.

'The first is: You were lucky, the surgical team was able to remove most of the bullet from your head. However, there are still some fragments that remain in a very sensitive area of your skull'.

I groan at hearing this. Just when I was thinking 'What the hell could be worse than that?' the doctor continued.

'Randy. The other piece of bad news is about your mother. She was waiting in chairs when she suffered a heart attack. Now, she's alright, she survived, but she'll be in the hospital for a few days, as well as you' says Dr. Archie or whatever he calls himself.

When I hear that, I just want to go back to sleep, but again, I don't succumb to my body's wish.

'How is she? Can I see her?' I ask hurriedly.

'She's asleep now, but once she wakes up, you can visit with her, **if** you're still awake' says Dr. March.

Well, I can certainly see why my mom suffered a heart attack. She is under a great deal of stress, and I guess I didn't alleviate any of that stress.

Now I just feel like I need to sleep. I think I will.

* * *

Sometime later when Randy wakes up:

Ugh. Shut up. Just shut up! Shut the fuck up!

I realize that I'm screaming out loud now. Why won't these fucking voices shut up?! I can't think straight even.

Apparently someone heard me. The door is opening.

And in walks…my mom?

What is she doing here? I thought I was the one that would visit her.

I make an attempt to set up, but fail. I make another attempt, and succeed this time.

'Randy? Sweetie, just be careful, don't hurt yourself' she says.

God it sounds so good to hear her voice.

Speaking of voices, the ones in my head have gone for now.

'Mom, I heard about your heart attack a few hours ago' I say hoarsely and through a great deal of pain.

'Randy that was a few _days_ ago that Dr. Archer told you that. You've been drifting in and out of sleep since then' mom says with that hint of motherly worry in her voice.

All of a sudden I feel different. Now I can hear my mom screaming at the top of her lungs. Here come a nurse and a doctor rushing in with a crash cart.

Wait, how can I see this? I feel a lump in my throat as I look down. There is my lifeless body, being shocked mercilessly by the doctors.

Now it feels like something is pulling me back. Something is pulling me back to my body. I can tell. I can feel pain now. Pain has never felt so good and welcoming.

I finally wake back up. I see my mom standing in the corner, trying not to cry.

I wish she wouldn't. It bothers me. If she needs to cry, then she should just fucking cry. Don't try to hide it or hold it back.

I think I'll just sleep for a little longer.

-Randy

A/N: So, this chapter was a little different, eh? I promise the next chapter will be in the typical journal format. Please R&R, I need to know what everyone thinks of these chapters that are broken up over a period of two or three days. Just let me know if I'm cramming too many things or too many days into one chapter, and I'll take it easier next time. Thanks for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor.


	13. Chapter 12: December 2, 1997

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Journal Entry for Tuesday, December 2, 1997

I got out of the hospital yesterday; my mom got out the day before.

My head hurts me all of the time now, but I'm trying not to take the amitriptyline unless it gets to be really horrible. And it's worse than a typical migraine. It feels like someone is pounding on my skull with a steel hammer.

I've also been hearing those same voices. They don't say anything is the problem. They speak words, and they speak English, but there are so many voices talking at once that I can't understand anything any of them says.

I haven't slept since I left the hospital. I mean I haven't slept at all. But oddly enough, I'm not tired at all, which bothers me because my body feels tired, but I can't sleep. My mom won't give me any kind of pill to help me sleep because she doesn't want anything like a few months ago to happen.

Lauren called earlier today and talked to me. She isn't pissed at me, but she has started seeing someone else she said. But she still wants us to be friends. I just said 'yeah, sure'.

My life just seems to be disintegrating. What'll be next? I'm not sure if I even want to know.

My head hurts me all of the time now, but I'm trying not to take the amitriptyline unless it gets to be really horrible. And it's worse than a typical migraine. It feels like someone is pounding on my skull with a steel hammer.

I've also been hearing those same voices. They don't say anything is the problem. They speak words, and they speak English, but there are so many voices talking at once that I can't understand anything any of them says.

I got out of the hospital yesterday; my mom got out the day before.

Lauren called earlier today and talked to me. She isn't pissed at me, but she has started seeing someone else she said. But she still wants us to be friends. I just said 'yeah, sure'.

-Randy

A/N: What's up with repeating the paragraphs? (I did do that on purpose). You'll just have to keep on reading to find out.

I know this is a short chapter, but the next one will be up soon, and it is longer.

As always, please R&R. Getting a review just makes me so happy.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	14. Chapter 13: December 4 & 5, 1997

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Journal Entry for Thursday December 4, 1997

I'm going fucking crazy. I woke up in the middle of the night and had pulled a chunk of hair out of my head.

Then right after Brad left to go to school, I stole some of his pot out of his secret stash, then came down stairs and smoked it right on the bottom of the steps. It felt so relaxing that I went back upstairs and got the rest of the stash and smoked it. It certainly got rid of the voices in my head. I don't even give a fuck if mom finds out. I'll just OD on the amitriptyline and then the problems will be solved.

My head still hurts, but I'm getting used to it.

My mom had to cut a few of her classes since her heart attack, but she still is gone a lot of the day, which I enjoy.

I'm watching a bootleg of Wild America right now. (One of Brad's friends made it).

You know, it's funny. A lot of people say that Jonathan Taylor Thomas and I look a lot alike. (And we do). I mean, we even have had our hair styled the same way at a couple points in time. Maybe someday I'll get to act in a movie or TV show with him. That would be awesome.

-Randy

* * *

3:30 a.m. Friday December 5, 1997

I haven't been eating much since I got home from the hospital. After all, I've suffered enough; I don't need to die from eating my mom's vegetarian lasagna.

I walk to the fridge though, and grab a bag of salad mix and a bottle of lime vinaigrette dressing and a fork out of the drawer.

Then I walk over to the couch, sit down, and flip on the TV. I put it on a rerun of NYPD Blue.

So I sit there for a little while, eating my salad, and watching NYPD Blue.

Then I start hearing those fucking voices again. Now they sound louder though.

I didn't have these fucking voices before I took the Ambien and Tylenol, did I?

No.

Maybe…maybe. Maybe if I took some more pills, I could get rid of the fucking voices.

I'm barely able to make it upstairs thanks to the fucking voices.

'Mom, my head's killing me. I'm going to take an amitriptyline for it' I say.

Now that takes balls. To tell your own mom you're about to OD on pills.

'Okay' she mumbles, half asleep.

I grab the bottle and open it up. I dump out all that are left of these. (13).

I put the bottle back in the medicine cabinet, and head downstairs.

Downstairs I grab a bottle of expensive looking champagne, which is about three quarters of the way empty, and then a half empty bottle of some foreign scotch.

Then I head downstairs to my room to have a party with my pills, some pot of Brad's I saved, and the booze.

A/N: What will happen to Randy now? Is he really insane? Who knows other than me? The answer: No one.

I'll warn you, if I don't get 3 reviews (by 3 different people) for this chapter in 5 days, Randy will be hurt badly, does everyone understand me? Good. Now put the money in the bag, and don't try anything funny!

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	15. Chapter 14: December 5, 1997

Chapter 14

A/N: This chapter has several different points of view in it, but, once again, I have to have a chapter like this since Randy has ODed on some kind of pill. (When will that damn psychiatrist ever learn?).

* * *

Friday December 5, 1997

Mark's POV

I wake up earlier than normal and take a shower. On my way out, mom catches me and asks me to go down and wake Randy up.

It sounds like she's having one of her mornings again. Every once in a while, she wants everyone to sit at the table and have breakfast together like we used to when we were little kids.

4 months ago, waking Randy up would be as simple as going down and saying 'Randy, wake up'.

But now he's always a grouch when anyone tries to wake him up.

I mean, the other day Brad tried to wake him up because Lauren was on the phone, and he told Brad to "fuck off". (And Brad could beat the crap out of Randy).

As I walk down the stairs, I say a quick prayer even though I'm not very religious.

When I walk in, all of the lights are turned off.

'Damn!' I mumble as I trip over a bottle.

'Randy, mom wants you up stairs for breakfast' I say considerably loud.

No response.

'Randy, if you don't want to get up, then just tell me, and I'll leave' I say, hoping he'll answer "yes".

No response.

So I walk over to the light switch and flip it on, wondering what the hell he's doing so that he can't hear me. Usually telling me or someone else to "fuck off" is a highlight of his day.

Then I see the empty bottles that once contained liquor, and I see Randy passed out on the bed. Breathing, but passed out.

I run back upstairs to get mom, taking the steps 3 at a time.

'Mom, Randy's passed out; and there's two empty liquor bottles down there' I yell without even waiting to make it to the dining room where my mom is setting the table.

'Oh my God! Okay, grab the cordless phone, and come downstairs with me' she orders.

I listen.

* * *

Jill's POV

I run down the stairs two at a time, just praying that Randy hasn't tried to OD on something else.

When I get down there, I can tell he's done something the way he's passed out on his bed.

'Mark, give me the phone' I shout in a panic.

I dial 911.

I'm panicking so much now; I don't even know what I'm saying.

Next thing I know, I'm handing Brad the phone, and I'm bent across Randy's body.

* * *

Brad's POV

The dispatcher who answered the 911 call asks me to check for Randy's pulse and to check to see if he's breathing.

I check the pulse. I can't find one, but I can't even find my own pulse. I tell this to the dispatcher.

Next I check for breathing.

'Yes' I say. 'He's breathing, but just barely'.

'The paramedics should almost be there. If he stops breathing, begin mouth to mouth resuscitation' says the dispatcher.

The next thing I know, I hear paramedics come bursting through the door, wheeling a gurney down the stairs to the basement, where everyone is waiting for them.

* * *

Jill's POV

'Mrs. Taylor, do you know what your son has taken?' asks one of the paramedics.

'Well, the only things I know of are the booze and the amitriptyline' I say.

Now, for the third time in three months, I find myself riding with my son to the hospital in an ambulance.

I'm sitting in the waiting room now.

I spend most of my time focusing on the hallway that the doctors took Randy down, but risk a glimpse at my watch.

8:34. Mark and Brad are sitting on either side of me, both trying to act strong, and trying to not lose it.

I wait for a few more minutes, and then see a doctor come walking towards the waiting area.

I jump up, grab his arm, and demand to know how Randy is doing.

'Lady, I don't know who you're talking about. I'm just coming out here to do charts' he says.

Feeling embarrassed, I sit down again.

Another 10 minutes pass, then I see another doctor. This time I don't make the mistake of jumping up and grabbing the doctor's arm.

The doctor heads my way.

'Hi, are you Mrs. Taylor?' she asks.

'Yes' I say.

'Hi. I'm Dr. Payne' she says.

'You're son is suffering from a tricyclic antidepressant overdose' she said.

'What the hell does that mean?' I ask.

'It means he took too many of his amitriptyline' Dr. Payne says.

'So it was the amitriptyline' I say.

'No. You're son's stomach contents were very interesting, Mrs. Taylor. We found champagne, scotch, the amitriptyline of course, and marijuana' says Dr. Payne as if she's discussing the weather.

'What? Marijuana? Champagne? Scotch?' I question in disbelief.

'I know it may be hard to believe, but that is what we found' the doctor says.

'Ya think it's hard to believe?' I ask in shock.

'Mrs. Taylor, I noticed on your son's chart that he has attempted suicide before. I don't mean to pry, but could there be a reason he keeps attempting suicide?' Dr. Payne asks.

Let me tell you, that woman is living up to her name.

'Umm, yes. About three months ago, my husband was shot and killed on a highway. He's been very upset ever since then' I state.

'I can't guarantee your son will be fine. Honestly, it doesn't look good right now. Your son put a lot of amitriptyline in his stomach, and it was in there for quite a while. And amitriptyline is a very toxic drug, just like any other kind of tricylic antidepressant.

'Well, I have other patients I have to see, but I'll talk to you later on Mrs., er… Ms. Taylor' Dr. Payne says.

This is just ridiculous I think to myself.

Why does Randy keep trying to do this? I know Tim's death was hard, but Randy's death would just make things even harder.

I sit back down and tell Brad and Mark what Dr. Payne just told me.

I also make sure that Brad knows we will be discussing the marijuana later.

As I sit there, I start wondering about life. What if life as we know it is just a dream? If it is, why is it we as the characters in the person's dream can't wake the dreamer, or control their lives in that dream?

Another thought that occurs to me:

What if hell is a unique situation for each person? For Randy, it might be a place like Pittsburgh where all there is to eat is meat. For Mark it would be a bright, sunny meadow where cute little bunnies frolic around all day. Brad, it would be eternal school. But what would it be for me? Or am I already living in my hell?

Sometimes you just wonder if you ever really have any control over anything that happens in your life, right on down the line, even after you die.

- Chapter courtesy of Mark, Brad, and Jill Taylor.

A/N: I don't know why I threw that last part in there. It just seems like it fits in this chapter.

Hmm. That dream part sounds kind of cool, doesn't it?

Well, please R&R, and thanks for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	16. Chapter 15: December 6, 1997

Chapter 15

Saturday December 6, 1997

Randy's POV

Ugh. My head is absolutely pounding. My throat's on fire. All in all, I feel like hell.

I try to open my eyes. Nothing. I simply don't have the strength to.

'Randy, are you awake?' I can hear a voice ask.

Who is it? Who does the voice belong to?

I rack my already aching brain, and get nowhere.

It's mom! The voice belongs to mom!

'Mom' I try to whisper. It comes out more like 'mmm'.

'Don't try to talk sweetie. Let me go get the doctor' mom says quietly.

She leaves, and comes back a few minutes later. By then I've managed to open my eyes a little bit.

'Randy, this is Dr. Payne' introduces mom.

'How do you feel?' asks Dr. Payne.

'T-terrible' I say hoarsely.

'That's to be expected after what you've gone through' Dr. Payne says staring down at my chart.

'We ran a precautionary head CT, and that turned up something interesting. There are bullet fragments lodged in your skull. Randy, we'll have to perform a very invasive surgery to get those retrieved. Of course, you have to recover from your overdose first' says Dr. Payne.

'Surgeons have already operated on him to remove those. They couldn't get to them' mom tells Dr. Payne.

'Yes, but those were trauma surgeons. We'd be sending Randy to a neurosurgeon for this operation' Dr. Payne explains.

'Um, could I talk to you outside, Dr. Payne?' asks mom.

'Sure' replies Dr. Payne.

'Randy, I'll be right back' she says.

Luckily she leaves the door open, so I can eavesdrop on their conversation.

'How invasive would this surgery be? What are the chances of it even working?' inquires mom.

'It would be very invasive. Surgeons would be digging the bullet fragments out of his skull' Dr. Payne replies.

I can't hear any more after that, because mom realizes the door's open, and so she closes it.

After a couple of minutes, I hear screaming. It's mom.

'Yeah, you always have other patients to see! Does my son not count as a patient? Is he not worthy of the same medical care that your other patients get? You know what, I think I want a different doctor to be treating Randy from here on out, okay bitch?!' shouts mom.

Then I can hear Dr. Payne reply something. The only word I could make out was "bitch!"

Great, why does mom have to argue with the doctors?

Mom opens the door again, and comes back in. I pretend to be sleeping.

'I'm sorry for the excess noise Randy. And I'm sorry that that woman had to be your doctor. But it'll be better. We'll get you another doctor, and we'll get those bullet fragments taken care of. I promise you we will' mom says crying.

She then grabs a hold of my hand.

* * *

Jill's POV

As I grab a hold of Randy's hand, I start to whisper aloud.

'Tim, I really wish you were here. If you were here, I could at least have someone for support. I just feel so alone. Why did you have to listen to that man? You could've just told them no. You should've told them that you wouldn't testify. And now you're dead' I whisper through tears.

My next comments are directed to God: 'I just wish you would let me be able to have Tim back. And I wish you would let Randy be. Pick on someone else for a change. It just doesn't seem fair that it always has to be Randy getting hurt, Randy with the health problems, Randy with all of the suffering' I say, even though I know that God doesn't make deals, and that He/She isn't doing this to Randy just to be mean.

Now I just let it all loose. I just sit there holding Randy's hand, and cry until I can't cry any more.

A/N: For the record, I don't know if performing the aforementioned surgery on Randy would be possible or realistic, but in this fan fiction, we'll go ahead and say it is.

I would like to thank Colin Creevey for giving me the idea for this paragraph:

"'_Tim, I really wish you were here. If you were here, I could at least have someone for support. I just feel so alone. Why did you have to listen to that man? You could've just told them no. You should've told them that you wouldn't testify. And now you're dead' I whisper through tears." _That will definitely lead to something.

All in all, it's not looking like the Taylors will be having a very happy Christmas.

Please read and review if you want more chapters.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	17. Chapter 16: December 7, 1997

Chapter 16

Sunday December 7, 1997

Randy's POV

Once again I wake up to pure, unrefined pain.

This time, I'm able to open my eyes without sending searing waves of pain through my entire head.

I sit up a little bit, and can see that mom fell asleep in the chair next to my bed.

Somehow, she must of heard me, because she instantly wakes up.

'Oh good morning' mom says with a smile.

Yeah, good for who? I feel like hell warmed over.

I fake happiness though, just for mom's sake.

'Good morning' I smile, almost sounding like my old self. Wow, I haven't sounded that good or happy in a long time.

'Oh, I want to introduce you to your new doctor' mom says, jumping up.

She goes out, and re-enters a couple of minutes with a tall, brown haired man.

'This is Dr. Graff' she introduces.

'Hi Randy' he says with a genuine smile.

Well, he certainly looks nice and knowledgeable.

'How do you feel this morning? I know that seems like a stupid question, but I have to ask' Dr. Graff asks, chuckling a bit at the last part.

'Better than yesterday' I say.

I really do feel better. That, and if I say I feel better, I can get those damn bullet fragments out of my freakin' skull.

'Well that's good. You'll probably be able to go home in a couple of days. Then we can see about getting those bullet pieces out of your head' says Dr. Graff genially.

'That's good' I remark.

'Well, I really would love to stay and chat, but my wife just went into labor, so I must be off' Dr. Graff says on his way out.

'Oh, and I will be having a nurse come by later to talk to you about seeing a neurosurgeon, and about setting up an appointment for the surgery' says Dr. Graff from the doorway.

'So Randy, are you hungry this morning? I could run down to the cafeteria and get you something to eat. Or maybe get you a glass of juice?' mom asks.

'Could you just get me some water?' I ask.

'Sure thing. I'll be right back. I'll just leave the door open, if it's alright with you' she says, grabbing her purse.

I nod my head in response to her question.

While she's gone, it gives me time to think.

On the one side, taking 13 amitriptyline is a bad thing. It's bad for my body, since they're very toxic. On the other hand, I have yet to hear any voices in my head.

I'm just worried about those bullet fragments now. How does anyone know for sure that they can be removed? I mean, is it even worth the risk of sawing my head open and yanking foreign matter out of my skull?

I really wish dad was alive to be here for this. But then again, if he was alive, none of this would even be happening, would it?

Dad, why did you have to be out on that highway? Were you dealing drugs? Or were you just an innocent bystander?

Now mom's back with the water.

'Here you go' she says, sitting the water down on the table that pulls up to the bed.

Then I hear a knock on the door. It must be the nurse Dr. Graff mentioned.

'Hi Randy' smiles a young nurse.

'Hi' I say after taking a painful drink of water. (My throat still hurts).

'I'm here to talk to you about seeing a neurosurgeon and about setting up an appointment to get that bullet out of your head' the nurse explains as if I'm 5.

'Okay' I say. As if I had a choice to doing this.

'We're going to send you to Dr. Ultameier. You'll see him on the 10th' says the nurse.

'Then he'll determine when, or if, the operation will be' smiles the nurse. Geez, as much as she smiles, her cheeks must ache when she gets home.

Mom sits back down as the nurse leaves.

'Can I get you anything else?' she asks.

'Yeah. Could you help me up? I need to pee really, really bad. I haven't gone since last night' I say, smiling.

Yep. It definitely feels like the old me is back now. Just with the minor addition of extreme pain.

'I can take it from here' I tell mom, just so she doesn't follow me into the bathroom.

For some odd reason, standing there peeing, I start to think about things that have happened to me since I was a baby. I had severe asthma attacks as a toddler, then there was the time when I was 6 and broke my leg in two different places when I fell out of a tree, then of course a couple of years ago we thought I had cancer. Maybe I've just been cheating death my entire life. Maybe now it's just finally catching up to me.

I hear a knock on the door.

'Are you alright in there Randy? You've been in there for going on five minutes now' mom hollers through the solid oak door.

Has it been five minutes? I didn't even realized I'd stopped peeing.

'Yeah, I just got a little distracted is all' I reassure her.

I pull my underwear back up, flush the stool, wash my hands, and head back to bed. Overall, the trip took 10 minutes. (But it was definitely worth it).

I just wonder if I'll be like my old self for long or not.

A/N: Part of the writing credits this chapter should go to my cat, who was helping me write by laying on half of the keyboard of my laptop.

BTW, the reason I'm doing a mass update of my stories is today I have to have surgery performed on my nose, so I won't feel like writing or updating for at least a week, probably closer to two.

Okay, so please read and review if you want more of this story.

Thanks for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	18. Chapter 17: December 10, 1997

Chapter 17

Journal Entry for Wednesday December 10, 1997

I saw that neurosurgeon today, Dr. Ultameier. He said that about _half_ of the bullet fragments can be removed. The others are too deep in the skull. Hearing that made mom a nervous wreck. He decided to operate sometime next year, seeing as how I'll have to be in the hospital for quite a few weeks after I get the operation done.

But for now, I'm glad to be feeling like my normal self. Mark came downstairs this morning to wake me up, and when I didn't tell him to fuck off, he actually smiled.

This has to be a record for me over the past few months; I haven't had a migraine since Saturday. I haven't had a headache since Sunday.

I called Lauren to tell her what I found out from Dr. Ultameier. She was happy for me, and said she wishes me luck. The other thing she said, which made me happy, is that she dumped my successor as boyfriend. (If he had dumped her, then I wouldn't be _as_ happy).

Mom is keeping a close eye on me since she found out that I took marijuana and scotch and champagne and all those things when I was trying to get rid of those voices. (That's the way I want to think of it. I mean, I had no intention of ending my life, just of ending those voices' lives).

So, even though I'm getting eagle eye treatment, I'm glad things are back to normal now. Brad is ev-

Damn it. Sorry about that, my nose started to just absolutely gush blood. I don't know what's up with this. Maybe it has something to do with all of the drugs and whatnot that I've been putting into my body over the past three months.

Well, I'll have to write more later. It's hard to wrtie wit a blody noose.

-Rany

* * *

Mark's POV

It is certainly nice to have Randy back to his old self again. But I just wonder how long he'll be his old self again until he goes back to being the King Asshole he has been for pretty much the entire past three months.

I mean don't get me wrong, I feel sorry for him, having the bullet pieces stuck in his skull and all, but that doesn't justify his behavior the first time he tried to commit suicide. Yes, he was under a lot of stress, but so was everyone else, and none of us tried to commit suicide.

Now, I'm not saying I haven't thought of suicide myself. Originally it was just because dad was dead, but the past couple of times I've thought about it, it's been because of all the shit (for lack of a better term) that Randy has pulled. But, fortunately, I haven't been stupid enough to actually follow through with any of these attempts. Luckily mom hasn't seen any of the cut marks or scars on my arms.

* * *

Brad's POV

So, how long will Randy be Randy before the dark, bastard side of him takes over again?

I'm not saying that he's an actual bastard, but that's just the way he's been acting lately.

The truth is, I don't think Randy will get better. I think this is just going to haunt him the rest of his life.

It seems like just yesterday that it was me and him hanging out, being mean to Mark.

Then Randy hits puberty (or his equivalent), and everything changed. All of a sudden, he cares about saving the environment and corruption in politics, and healthcare crises.

I still can't believe that he's tried to commit suicide, twice now. Plus, the last time he tried, he had to drag my pot into it.

You know, I think I'm wrong. I think maybe some of this is my fault. I mean, I hit puberty, and then just kind of left Randy in the dust, so he _had_ to go out and find other interests. Maybe if I hadn't done that, he would come and talk to me about his feelings, rather than trying to commit suicide. I don't know. I just wish that someone would be able to get to the very bottom of this before Randy tries something stupid again.

Maybe I should suggest to mom that she try to get him to talk to a shrink.

* * *

A/N: Well…Now all is good and right in the land of Randy's Thoughts. Randy is acting like himself, Mark and Brad are happy that he's back to normal. Everything is good.

Okay, well, everything is good and right except the nosebleed that Randy got.

Please read and review if you want more chapters for this story. (And everyone knows they want to get more chapters, because without another 10 or 15 chapters, no one will get to know the ending to this story).

As always, thank you for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	19. Chapter 18: December 15 & 16, 1997

Chapter 18

Journal Entry for Monday December 15, 1997

What should I listen to now? Either _Sheryl Crow _by Sheryl Crow (duh!) or _Fairweather Johnson_ by Hootie and the Blowfish. That's a tough decision to have to make. Hmm. I think I'll listen to _Sheryl Crow_.

I don't know what's up with my nose now. It has bled 7 times in the past 4 days. And they're not just little nosebleeds that last for 5 or 10 minutes. These things will sit and gush sometimes for over an hour. I haven't gone to the emergency room with one though, because there's nothing much that they could do. (And I don't want it to get packed. No, I refuse to have it packed). I've tried everything from putting ice on my nose, pinching my nose, to trying to blow out the blood clot to get it to stop. None of those methods have worked yet.

This is going to sound odd, but I just now realized that Christmas is almost here. Of course, with everything going on that's been going on, I shouldn't be surprised that I forgot.

Usually at this time each year, the house is completely decorated, the roof is full of decorations for the lighting contest, and we have a tree over in the corner. Not this year though. We probably won't even really celebrate Christmas this year. Not that that bothe-

Here we go again! Another freaking nosebleed!

I'll write more later or tomorrow or something.

-Randy

* * *

Journal Entry for Tuesday, December 16, 1997

My nose bled for three hours yesterday. 3 freaking hours! So when mom got home from work (she's a manager at Wal-Mart now), I told her, and she called a local ear, nose and throat doctor.

The doctor said that my nose has huge blood vessels, and most of them are very far up in my nose. He ordered a CBC to make sure that I'm not losing too much blood during all of these nosebleeds. If the problem persists, he's going to "cauterize" my nose. That means I'll go under general anesthesia, and the doctor will go up my nose and burn away the blood vessels. All in all, it sounds like a very painful procedure.

I feel so sorry for mom. I mean, in the past three months, her life has just completely caved in on her. Her husband died, I've nearly died three times now, her oldest son is on drugs, and her youngest has become a gothic punk. No wonder she had heart attack.

I just wish so much that dad was here. He did get on my nerves sometimes, but that doesn't mean that I didn't love him. I still love him. I always will. If I had it to do over again, I would've talked to him, just talked, one last time that night. This entire experience has taught me, and everyone else in this family something: Never take **anything** for granted.

Lauren called me yesterday, and she wants me to come over and watch a Dave Matthews Band concert that one of her friends saw and taped. I said I would. I'm not sure if this means she wants us to get back together, or if it's just her being friendly. If she does want us to get back together, just say the word.

I'm going to have to get a new journal soon. This one only has about 5 pages left.

I still don't much care for writing in this goddamned thing, and don't know why I do sometimes. I mean, I could sort through my thoughts just as easily in my head. But I can hear my damn psychiatrist now: 'I can't read your thoughts if they're still in your head'. So then, don't read my frickin' thoughts. They're not really any of your damn business to begin with.

-Randy

* * *

Wilson Wilson's Thoughts That Evening:

How much time does the U.S. Attorney need to prosecute the case? It's been three months now.

I just wish that I could tell someone, anyone what Tim told me.

* * *

A/N: Is Wilson's POV really confusing? Good, it's supposed to be.

The surgery that Randy was talking about (the cauterization) is a real procedure. I've had it done before. Twice actually. But that isn't the surgery I mentioned a couple of chapters. That was a skin graft that I had to have for my nose. But I digress.

As always, please read and review if you want to read more of this story. (Because I could be mean and just write the rest of the story and read it myself, but not post it. But I don't suppose I have to worry about that, do I)?

Thanks for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	20. Chapter 19: December 19, 1997

Chapter 19

A/N: I don't normally do something like this, but I just want to dedicate this chapter to one of my cats, who is currently sick. Get better soon Patch!

* * *

Journal Entry for Friday December 19, 1997

I'm ready to chop my goddamn nose off. No, I take that back. I'm ready to chop it off, rip it off, saw it off, or whatever the hell it will take to keep the SOB from bleeding. I'm just completely terrified of the thought of having to have that surgery done on it. It's not the anesthesia that scares me, it's just that I'm afraid of something happening while I'm on the table. I don't want it to start gushing blood or something. I know it's paranoid of me, but I _do_ watch ER every Thursday night that it's on. (I watch it alone, because it absolutely disgusts mom, and Brad and Mark wouldn't know a good TV show if it came up and bit them on the butt). Mom has already threatened that if it bleeds one more time in the next couple of days, she'll take me back to the doctor and we'll set up an appointment to have it cauterized.

Right now everyone is sitting in the same room. I'm watching a re-run of a Dharma and Greg episode (while doing this of course), Brad is listening to some kind of rap CD, Mark is doing a book report, and mom is making out a schedule for her employees.

I have to admit, I'm surprised. Mom hasn't asked yet in all of these months to see anything in my journal. I always thought she was nosier than that.

I went over a couple of days ago to watch that concert with Lauren. It was absolutely amazing. Well, the concert was too. But just sitting in the same room with Lauren again was amazing. Then, the entire 6 or 7 minutes that the band played "Crash Into Me", me and Lauren just sat there and kissed. (Did I forget to mention no one else was around except us two?) Don't quote me on this, but I think we might be getting back together. It seems like everything in my life is starting to fall back into place now. Well, save the nosebleeds.

I am kind of frustrated, and honestly, a bit disturbed too. I woke up last night, and I'd pulled another chunk of hair out. It isn't huge, and isn't noticeable, but it still concerns me that I'm doing that. Don't tell me I'm starting to get…what do they call it? I think it's something like trichotillomania. But don't quote me on that either. In fact, don't freaking quote me at all.

I'm kind of excited now, because I hear Dave Matthews Band is going to be releasing a new album next spring. I'm such a huge fan of theirs. I especially like the songs Ants Marching and Two Step. Those two are just absolutely amazing to listen to. Especially when their played live.

We still haven't decorated anything for Christmas, which, as I said before, is quite alright by me. Christmas will only bring back painful memories of dad and of when we were all actually a family. And I don't think anybody here wants that. We have enough damn pain the way it is around here.

This may sound Grinch-esque of me, but I just wish we could skip over Christmas this year. Just go to bed on December 23, and wake up and have it be December 26. Just skip all the food, drinks, presents, carols, good cheer, and the whole damn nine yards.

I heard this old song on the radio the other day, and now it's stuck in my head. It's called Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin). Yeah, I know. I laugh every time I read the title too. Now that is a song I'd like to hear Dave Matthews Band cover.

This has to be a record for me the way I've been going recently. I haven't had a nosebleed since yesterday morning, and right now it's 11:03 at night.

Well, I think I'll just head to bed now. The Dharma and Greg episode is over now, and now it's a rerun of Friends that's airing. God I hate that show. It is so stupid. It a;most makes me sick to think I spent the past three minutes watching it.

-Randy

* * *

A/N: First off, yes, I hate the show Friends. I hope I haven't offended anyone with any of my remarks. If I have, I'm sorry.

Secondly, I'm aware that Grinch-esque isn't a word, but I'm going to use it in this story anyways. (I'd like to see somebody try to stop me from using it).

Anyways, it sounds like Randy is getting back to normal. It also sounds like he's going to have to have surgery on his nose. Poor kid, I know how he feels about the nosebleeds.

As always, please R&R, I love reviews like a kid loves candy and fresh snow. I love them enough to fill heaven, overflow, and fill hell. (Sorry, just had the urge to quote a Dave Matthews Band song there. The song is called "Oh" just for anyone who's wondering.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	21. Chapter 20: December 25, 1997

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Journal Entry for Thursday December 25, 1997

Christmas morning. This really brings back some memories, most of them painful ones.

I remember waking up at the crack of dawn when I was younger, just so I could open my presents early. Most of the time it didn't work, and mom/dad would just tell me to go back to bed for a couple of hours. I'd always do as they asked, though I never was able to sleep any more.

I can remember the times when grandma was here and she'd make her famous sticky buns for breakfast. (Usually she'd have to make another batch because Brad and Mark and I would get up in the middle of the night and eat some of them. I think dad would sometimes too).

Dad. Wow. This will definitely be different without dad. Even though we won't be doing any celebrating really, it will still seem odd not to have him around. Of course, it seems odd not to have him around every day.

We still haven't (and so obviously we won't) decorated the house or gotten a tree or done any of the other things that we as a society have managed to pile upon the birth of Christ. I mean, seriously, what does a pine tree have to do with Jesus Christ being born? I mean, he wasn't even born on December 25 to begin with! I swear, if some of the people who come up with all of these things had a brain in their head, they'd be downright dangerous. But enough of my ranting. (At least on this particular topic).

In all this excitement, I forgot to mention that I have a new notebook now for my journal. I have the old one hidden someplace. (Like I'm going to actually write down where I have it at. Ha! You're so funny! You really should consider doing stand up. You'd be funnier than Tim Allen and Robin Williams combined).

I wonder if maybe I should try to find something to eat before mom invades the kitchen with her wonderful, wonderful cooking techniques. At least that way I don't have to lie and say I'm not hungry and I don't have to starve.

I'll write more in a bit.

-Randy

25 Minutes Later

It'll be hard, but I'm going to attempt to write and eat at the same time. We don't have too terribly much up there to choose from, so I just grabbed a couple packages of crackers. (The individual serving sized ones, not a huge sized package), and I poured a glass of eggnog. Yeah, I know, a very healthy breakfast, but somewhat festive nonetheless.

I'm not sure if you've been able to tell, (and by you I mean my damn psychiatrist, of course), but I'm starting to get back to my normal self again. And let me tell you, it feels good. Don't get me wrong, I'm still not as happy as I was before…the…well, you know, and I really doubt I ever will be, but I'm certainly feeling better.

I was looking at some of my journal entries from the times when I was really doing bad, thinking about suicide, et cetera, and it honestly scares me to think that I wrote those damn things. I was reading those and thinking the entire time "this could not possibly have been me".

I'll still continue to refer to my damn psychiatrist as my damn psychiatrist though, because that's all the more I think of him. (Well, I'm not going to lie, it is).

Hmm. That's all I can think of right now, but I'll be sure to write more tonight when I'm "in bed".

-Randy

A/N: I'll have Randy's thoughts (no pun intended) from that evening posted in the next chapter.

I hope nobody minded the fact that nothing really happened in this chapter. It's just kind of a filler chapter. Well, that, and the story is called "Randy's **Thoughts**", not "Randy's Action/Angst/Drama/Trauma/Tragedy Filled Life", although that may be how it seems at times.

Please R&R, reviews make me so happy. I like the fact that people like the fact that I'm writing, which includes me writing that I like the fact that people like the fact that I'm still writing this story. (Try saying that 10 times fast).

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	22. Chapter 21: December 26, 1997

Chapter 21

Journal Entry for Friday December 26, 1997

That was, bar none, the most odd; and most wretched Christmas day ever.

Oh sure, everything started out innocently enough. Mom decided to fix a turkey made entirely out of soybeans (for my benefit), and do all the other typical holiday recipes (i.e. green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, et cetera).

When everyone went to eat the soykey (I assume that's what it's called), we discovered that it wasn't fully cooked. Unfortunately I discovered it first by biting into it. In the process, one of my teeth wound up falling out. (That's why I never wrote anything else last night).

So I wound up having to go to the emergency room for the (record) fourth time this year, though for once, under less dire circumstances. I just put the tooth in a glass of milk until we got to the hospital, that way there is a possibility of the tooth being able to get put back in. However, that wasn't a possibility for me.

Now I have a huge gaping hole in my mouth where that tooth was. Needless to say, it's rather unpleasant to eat anything that requires chewing or any sort of sustenance coming into contact with the hole.

Let's see, what else happened yesterday?

Even though none of us had real intentions to (to my knowledge), we all wound up getting something for each other.

Brad: got some kind of book that has "top secret" soccer tips (from Mark) and a game for his computer (from me and mom).

Mark: got some kind of CD (well, the CD claims it has music on there, I say it is compiled of recordings of demons who escaped from Dante's seventh level of hell) from Brad, a how-to video on making movies (from mom), and I just gave him cash (because I had no idea what to buy for him).

I got: a crossword puzzle book that has over 500 puzzles in it (from mom), the book Dave Barry is from Mars and Venus (from Mark), and a John Hiatt CD from Brad.

Mom got: A handheld solitaire game (from Brad and Mark) and a Stephen King novel from me.

Weird presents, huh? **:)**

And, no one knows this (at least I don't think so), but last time we visited dad's grave, I put a rose on it. That's sort of his Christmas present from me.

Hope I haven't bored you with my lists.

(Once again, who am I talking to? I don't give a damn if my damn psychiatrist gets bored, or for that matter if he jumps into Lake Michigan).

* * *

Someone's POV on the night of December 25th

God, please tell me, give me some kind of sign. I want to know when. I **have **to know when.

* * *

A/N: …And the plot thickens.

Don't worry though; this story is far from over. I still have much more in store.

Once again, I apologize for the hiatus I took.

Please R&R. It's just such an amazing feeling to get a review.

Thanks for reading, I honestly do appreciate it.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	23. Chapter 22: December 27, 1997

Chapter 22

A/N: This chapter is not going to be in journal format.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor

* * *

Randy's POV

I'm in a room I don't recognize. Of course, I can't see anything since it is so dark. It's cold too. Dark and cold.

The funny thing is, I can't really feel the cold, or comprehend the darkness. What could have happened? Maybe someone knocked me out, then kidnapped me and took me to this place.

Now that I think about it, my head does kind of hurt. But, I don't remember anyone hitting me, or even anyone being inside our house. Hmm. Maybe that's just some effect of being knocked out.

I think I hear someone coming. What do I do know? I could try to run when the person walks into the room.

But… I can't seem to move! Damn it! I must be frozen with fear. But, if I am…that doesn't even make sense! I'm not scared or afraid! Come to think of it, I don't really seem to have much emotion. Just panic. Pure, utter panic.

Now the footsteps are getting louder, which of course means the person is closer now. I guess I'll just have to see who this bastard is that brought me here.

The person gets to the door, and I can hear it creak when is opened. Then the person flips a light switch, and the entire room is blinded with light.

Wow! This is the weirdest room I've ever been in. The floor (which I am sitting on) is made out of stone blocks, and looks like something out of The Flintstones. The walls are made out of dirt it appears(at least, I hope it's dirt), and the ceiling is painted the purest white color I've ever seen, and has four big squares, and each square has four smaller windows inside it. I can see through the windows. In one square, the sky is blue, and is dotted with fluffy, white clouds. Another square has a dark night sky. In the third square, the sky is black with storm clouds, and I can see the rain and lightning descending from the aforementioned storm clouds. In the last square, I can see objects being blown around. It almost looks like a scene out of _Twister_.

The squares are all just probably part of some hoax to try and confuse me.

The one odd thing about the room, I look around, and don't see anyone inside. I don't see a light switch or a door either! Geez, what length will this creep go to just to get a scare out of me?

Why am I getting so freaked out? Everything I see and hear is probably false.

I mean, there could be speakers installed somewhere to make noises that sound like footsteps, and any electrician could figure out how to rig lights (I didn't see any of those either!) to turn on without actually being in the room.

Okay, maybe I should be a little freaked out then. I mean, there are no lights in here, but yet all of the light in the room is blinding me!

Oh my God! I just blinked my eyes, and now I can see my dad! He's standing about four feet in front of me. Literally just standing. He isn't blinking or saying anything, even though he's looking right at me. He barely looks like he's breathing.

'Come on dad, stop that! You're freaking me out' I try to say, but can only manage to whisper.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't even acknowledge the fact that I'm here, or that he's even here.

Wait! This is amazing! Dad didn't die! I was right! Something just happened to him, and he's really alive!

Now I try to get up from my sitting position for the first time. And…I can't. I can't move. It's like I'm paralyzed from head to toe. But I can still blink and breathe. Now I'm really getting freaked out.

'Randy…Randy!' I hear someone say.

'Randy! Wake up!' I can hear a voice, mom's, shout.

* * *

A/N: Freaky, huh?

Bit of a surprise ending. (To the chapter, not to the story. I'm seriously going to try to write more chapters than anyone else has been able to. I want this to be my masterpiece story). But, at the same time, I won't overdo it either.

Anyways, please read and review.

Thanks for reading, I appreciate it.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	24. Chapter 23: January 6, 1998

Chapter 23

* * *

Journal Entry for Tuesday January 6, 1998

Yeah, yeah, yeah, sorry I missed writing in this damn thing on New Year's Eve and New Year's and all that happy horse shit.

I'm not in much of a good mood, in case you can't tell. (I've got to stop talking to imaginary readers. If I don't, then I'll really need to talk to my damn psychiatrist about something).

Anyways, apparently the Detroit PD decided they had to exhume my dad's body to do some sort of test or something. Mom hasn't told me what it's for, and I try not to push the matter of dad's death any more than is absolutely necessary.

Brad, Mark, and I were given the option of being there or not when they did the exhumation. I was the only one who decided to go.

Everything was going fine, until something malfunctioned with the machine that they was using to dig up the earth accidentally hit the coffin. The worst part was, I could see my dad's body just lying there. Luckily, the coroner's office has offered to pay to get an even better coffin due to the screw up. Even so, I'm still extremely pissed about that happening.

But, of course, I'm against exhumations and that type of stuff anyways. I think it's disrespectful to the dead, as well as to the family of the deceased.

As far as I know, mom doesn't this yet, but I caught Mark smoking pot the other day. Apparently he, Brad, and Brad's pusher have decided to form a cartel. How quaint and lovely. Obviously Brad is back smoking again. When will those two learn that smoking kills? Yes, I was smoking the same stuff, but I quit after I got out of the hospital the last time. (What can I say; I have a lot of willpower).

Nobody knows this, but Brad was actually high when he got into his wreck a year or so ago right after he got his license. He just kind of let that little tidbit slip one time in normal conversation. (Or as normal of a conversation as me and him can possibly have anymore). I'm saving that information for a time when I really piss mom off. Then she'll want to know more, then she'll forget about what ever I did, and focus on Brad's screw ups. Well, sure, I might add in a few juicy details, just to make the story a bit more condemning for Brad and interesting for me.

What else has happened?

Well, Aunt Carrie stopped by for New Year's Day. As always, she had interesting (and by interesting I mean odd and weird and tacky and practically useless and whatever other adjectives you care to throw into the mix) gifts for everyone.

She gave Brad, Mark, and me some kind of South African chocolate that's supposed to be an aphrodisiac. (She obviously didn't tell this to mom).

Mom was considerably less lucky on the sex front, receiving a signed poster of Nelson Mandela. (That would be the antonym of aphrodisiac, I believe. Of course, maybe not if you're Mrs. Nelson Mandela). Don't get me wrong, I think he's a great man, and a great leader, but not a looker. (Hey! I don't go in for that kind of thing. Not that there's anything wrong with that!).

Don't ask me why the woman is giving teenagers aphrodisiacal chocolate. I thought everyone was trying to fight _against_ teen pregnancy and all that stuff, but apparently I was wrong.

Damn, I guess I need to finish up so I can go see my damn psychiatrist and give him another hour of my life that I'll never get back. Maybe I should ask him how much longer I'll have to see him.

Pfft, who am I kidding? Like I'll get a straight answer from a member of the greedy, death oriented son of a bitches who make up the medical establishment. Oddly enough, I say that, but love to watch the TV drama ER. Go figure.

But, at least I have a little more control over my life than I did. Actually, I'm in contotal control.

-Randy

* * *

A/N: So, Tim really is dead, all of you naysayers. (Sorry, nothing personal, but a writer has to do what a writer has to do).

By the way, aphrodisiacal is a real word. I was in doubt myself, but looked it up on my word processor's dictionary, and double checked in my huge Encarta dictionary. (Encarta is one of, if not the best dictionary to have). Honestly though, that word scared me. I was afraid I'd have to make up a word.

Contotal, on the other hand, is not. It's a word that one of my mom's friends uses. Funny how it sounds like a real word, isn't it? You could even say it's almost creepy.

Anyways, please R&R, I appreciate seeing how much people appreciate reading my stories. Even the parts where they appreciate me appreciating their reading my stories which they appreciate, which includes them reading the part where I appreciate them reading the part where I appreciate them appreciating reading the parts where I appreciate them reading my stories which includes…

Okay, maybe I got a little carried away there.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for not just stopping on the paragraph with all the appreciating going on. You could say that I appreciate it. (Notice I said **you could**, not that **I would**).

-Yours truly, Randy "appreciate appreciate appreciate appreciate" Taylor


	25. Chapter 24: January 10, 1998

Randy's Thoughts Chapter 24

Journal Entry for Saturday January 10, 1998

Well, I must admit, I feel much better than I did when I wrote the last journal entry.

Oh! That reminds me. I was going to rant on how idiotic the police can be at certain times. (These times would be anywhere between 12:01 in the morning to 12:01 the next morning and so on).

I wrote that they had to exhume my dad's body to do some tests. Well, the person mom talked with, who is the person who told us these damn tests needed to be done in the first place, doesn't even know what the hell the tests need to be done for!

God life is just such a headache sometimes any more.

Thank God I'm not going to school this year. I don't think I could take all of the other idiots. And I'm not just talking about kids here. Oh no, about a good 90 of the teachers at Lakeside High don't even know enough to have any business teaching what they teach. That's the good thing about learning from Wilson. He knows everything anyone could ever need to know.

I mean, he's even teaching me Latin now. (My only options at the high school are Spanish and French. One is for people who are too lazy to try to learn anything else, and the other is for all the romancers). Not that I'm saying that if your native language is Spanish or French your lazy or super romantic.

I've always wanted to learn either Latin or German. Or both. I just think it's cool to learn Latin, since that's a dead language. And German just sounds neat. I mean, you could be seducing somebody, and it sounds like your cussing them out.

I talked with my damn psychiatrist, and he says that I have to see him at least four more times, because that's how many sessions are left on the plan that mom chose at the beginning of all this, way back in September.

You know, I just realized something, and I know this sounds absolutely insane, and it sounds like it should be something that would be impossible for me to forget, but I just realized that in less than a month (February 9th) I am going to turn 16.

Why did I have to think of that? Dad promised me a long time ago (like nine or ten years ago) than when I turned sixteen, he would have some kind of special surprise for me.

I know that it has been over five months now, but I still sometimes lie awake at night and just wonder "Why God, why did it have to be my dad?"

Maybe God just needed some entertainment up there. Or maybe He needed a taste tester for Polish food. I hope He didn't need more power, otherwise there may not be a heaven when I die. Can we all say "KABOOM!"?

I did get the best news I've had in a long time the other day. Lauren came by and asked if I would be alright with us dating again. Of course I said yes. I'd have to have a brain tumor the size of New Mexico not to say yes. I've hidden my aphrodisiacal chocolate some place down in the basement. (I'm not going to say where), and I've decided I'm going to save it for my honeymoon with (hopefully!) Lauren. If not with Lauren, then I'll save it for my honeymoon with whoever I may wind up marrying.

Maybe my life is starting to fall back into place. I haven't felt this good after writing a journal entry since...actually, I don't think I've ever felt this good after writing a journal entry.

Or it could be the fact that I'm lis

Dammit anyways! I thought my nose was done bleeding. I am not going to be happy if mom walks in and sees me sitting in the living room, bleeding from my nose. I really hope we don't have to do that stupid surgery, that cauterizing or whatever it's called.

- Randy

* * *

A/N: Poor Randy! I know how he feels about the nosebleeds.

Well, I don't have too much to say, other than to say I would like to see Tim Taylor power up something and blow up heaven. (Anybody else, I'd doubt that it could be done, but Tim, yeah, I think he could do it. After all, he's the Toolman! He can do anything!)

Please R&R if you want to see how many chapters I can write for this story (without the story becoming redundant or boring).

Thanks for reading, and always remember, never, ever, laugh at someone with a nosebleed, otherwise I will give you a nosebleed. (I won't really, but seriously, those things are no laughing matter).

-Yours truly, Randy "Bleeding Like a Stuck Pig" Taylor


	26. Chapter 25: January 11, 1998

Randy's Thoughts Chapter 25

Journal Entry for Sunday January 11, 1998

I hate the police. I swear, in that organization (if you could even call it an "organiz"ation), the left hand doesn't know what the right foot did five months ago. What I mean is, they have an IQ number that is equivalent with that of fried mayonnaise.

Apparently they needed to run tests on the bones of Timothy H. Tailor, not those of Timothy A. Taylor. It's scary, really, to think that we as a society trust people like this. (Now I'm not bashing all members of all police departments. Just the stupid ones).

Unfortunately last night mom _did_ come and catch me with my nose bleeding. She said she's going to call the ear, nose, and throat doctor on Monday (tomorrow) and set up an appointment so we can talk about having my nose cauterized. Lucky me!

I'm about ready to slap Mark in all this. Every time my nose bleeds, he starts laughing about it and making jokes. Now, I laugh about and make jokes about a lot of stuff, but a bleeding body part is serious.

Yeah, I hope you didn't forget about my dorky brothers Brad and Mark. I know I don't write about them a whole lot in this thing, but I try not to think about them any more than necessary. I mean, I love my brothers as much as the next fellow, but still, you can only love so much when one's Johnny Cash (only without the voice) and the other is an egotistical, hair obsessed Fabio wanna-be.

It does make me laugh every time I picture Brad with long, golden, flowing hair, and a dark tan. Actually it makes me think of some left over hippie who stayed out in the sun for about twelve straight days with no sun screen on.

Reading through last night's entry, I got to thinking. I wonder what dad's surprise was going to be. I wonder if it was something that just he did, maybe, or if mom was in on it too. I went over and asked Wilson if he knew anything about it, and he just started quoting from some ancient book of Italian proverbs. I never did get a straight answer, which makes me wonder whether or not he's in on this too maybe. Like I told mom, that kind of thing happening is just what makes Wilson Wilson Wilson Wilson Wilson Wilson.

Geez, I just got a hand cramp from writing all those "Wilson"s.

Well, I really don't think much else has happened since 10:15 p.m. last night.

Maybe I shouldn't write any more entries on back to back days.

-Randy

A/N: I don't really have anything to comment on in this chapter.

Oh! I'm not trying to degrade policemen by writing these things. So don't blame me, blame Randy. I mean, he wrote those remarks. These are _his_ thoughts, you know?

One more thing. Just try pictur


	27. Chapter 26: January 14, 1998

Randy's Thoughts Chapter 26

A/N: This one's for you Roi! You'll definitely be missed by all knew you.

* * *

Journal Entry for Wednesday January 14, 1998

Two days from now. On Friday I have to have my nose cauterized.

The doctor explained it to me, and told me that he's never heard of someone dying during a cautery, but I'm still scared. Here's what happens when during a cautery (to the best of my memory). The doctor takes something called a "lunar caustic" and dips it into water and then presses it down on blood vessels. He/she repeats the process until they've cauterized all that needs to be done.

The thing that really sucks for me is, the doctor, Dr. Reynolds, said that both sides will have to be cauterized, but they can't be done at the same time otherwise the two will cancel each other out (which I don't understand).

But this surgery is supposed to keep my nose from bleeding, so I guess it's worth it.

Then, on top of all that, I still have the surgery to remove those bullet fragments to look forward to as well. God are the hospitals ever going to be getting rich off my body this year.

I don't think Mark was counting on anything like this happening. He hasn't hardly said a word to me since he found out.

Mom found out something interesting yesterday at work. I've said before that she is a manager at Wal-Mart. That's not one hundred percent true. She's actually a "co-manager" of sorts. (She's a step above assistant manager, but isn't manager either). Well, anyways, she found out that there is going to be a new Wal-Mart built in Dearborn, Michigan, and they want her to manager that one. (She would actually be the manager there). She would only have to drive about 15 or 20 minutes to get there, and would be making a little bit more money.

Tomorrow dad is supposed to be reburied in the new casket, since the police wrecked the last one. (And for no good reason at that!)

You know, I've been thinking a lot about dad's surprise again. I couldn't really think of what it might be (sincd there are so many possibilites), but I have resolved not to think about it any more. It's just driving me crazy, and me going insane has yet to accomplish anything.

Lauren came by earlier today. She wanted to tell me about some program the school is thinking about doing. It would send twenty or thirty some odd kids over to Costa Rica on some kind of environmentalist program or something like that. She wasn't real specific with details.

But anyways, she just wanted to know what I thought about her signing up for the program. I told her that I think she should go for it if she wants to. I also told her that I wish that I could go too, but since I'm being schooled by Wilson this year, I can't. (Which sucks big time). I mean, she'd only be gone for seven months, but still...

Speaking of enviromentalism, all these uptight, stodgy, oil company owning conservatives are really starting to piss me off. They won't concede to the fact that global warming is real, and now you have all these aforementioned conservative types coming out and saying that El Nino isn't real. When will global warming be a reality to them? When they're swimming in the Sahara Desert because all the polar ice caps have melted? These people just don't get it.

Not that I'm saying all people who don't believe in El Nino and/or global warming are uptight, stodgy, own oil companies, and are Republican. And I'm not saying all Republicans, uptight people, stodgy people, or people who own oil companies don't believe in global warming and/or El Nino. It just seems like they don't give a good flying damn.

However, I do have to admit that I think the nation is taking a step in the right direction by banning smoking in all bars and restaurants in California. I mean, people go to a restaurant to eat food, not to inhale second hand smoke.

Wow. I think the radio station I'm listening to must have a new DJ working right now. I just heard "Losing My Religion", "I'll Be There For You", and "Macarena" back to back to back. Normally, you'd do good to hear any one of these over the period of a month. Not that I'm really complaining. And yes, I know I've said before that I despise the TV show friends, but that doesn't mean I can't like the song that just happens to be the theme.

Wow, I sure had a lot to write about today. And I didn't think that that much was going on in my life.

-Randy

* * *

A/N: Sorry that it took me so long to update, I've just had so many ideas for Crash and Nine Months of Hell lately.

Next chapter probably won't be journal format since it will feature Randy's nose surgery.

Please read and review.

Thanks for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	28. Chapter 27: January 16, 1998

Randy's Thoughts Chapter 27

Journal Entry for Friday January 16, 1998

I have about ten spare minutes before I have to leave to be at the hospital, and didn't have anything better to do, so I decided to write in this thing.

I have to admit, I'm pretty nervous about having this done.

Mark finally talked to me a little bit last night. He wished me luck with the surgery and said he'd be by with Brad in the afternoon to see me (since he and Brad aren't going to the hospital with mom and I since we have to be there at 5:45).

Well, I guess I'd better get ready to go. I just hope I don't wind up having to go completely naked under that hospital gown. It has to feel so embarrassing.

-Randy

At the Hospital

Randy's POV

Right now I'm back in the pre-op room, waiting on the nurse to get an IV started. She's already tried in the left arm, and is now "shopping" for veins in the right arm, as she put it. It doesn't appear she's having much luck though.

'I think I have one here' she says after a few minutes of me flexing my hand and her tapping my arm in just about every imaginable spot.

The nurse (whose name is Mary) then sanitizes the spot with one of those little alcohol wipes, and inserts the needle into the vein and gets the IV started.

'This isn't a good IV, but it will work to get you under anesthesia. They probably will start a better one once they get back to the OR' Mary explains once she's finished.

'We're going to give you a little something in the IV to help you relax so you can fall asleep easier. You'll probably start to feel the effects in a few minutes' she says.

'Is there anything else that needs to be done then?' mom asks.

'No, we're just waiting on the doctor to get here, then we can wheel him on back to the operating room' the nurse says.

'Good luck. I'll be waiting right here for you. Don't worry, Dr. Michaels will take good care of you' mom says when the nurses start moving me.

At this point in time, I don't really much care what's going on with anybody.

When we get back to the operating room, I have to scoot myself over on to the operating table.

Then one of the nurses puts an oxygen mask of sorts over my face, and then soon after that, I fall asleep.

Randy's POV

Ugh. This is horrible. It feels like my nose is on fire.

I wonder how long I've been back in the recovery room. I also wonder if the surgery was a success. I guess only time will tell.

I think I'll just try to go back to sleep for now. I'm sure someone will wake me up when I've spent enough time back here.

A/N: Sorry I haven't updated any of my stories in a while. I don't remember if I mentioned this before or not, but on July 25 I had to have some more surgery done on my nose (it was the same surgery I had back in May, but this was just on the other side). Anyways, this week I had some complications from that surgery so I haven't really been able to write until today. If you want details about the complications, send me a PM, but I won't share them here, since they are quite bloody and gory.

Anyways, please R&R.

Thanks for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	29. Chapter 28: January 19, 1998

Randy's Thoughts Chapter 28

Journal Entry for Monday January 19, 1998

I believe it was Sheryl Crow who, in one of her songs, said "God I feel like hell tonight". I don't think I could agree more. It feels like somebody has glued a small marble inside my right nostril. This really had better be worth it.

Brad took one look at me when I got home Friday evening, and started laughing. I didn't realize what he was laughing about until I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror. It looks like the doctor took a piece of charcoal and rubbed it all over half of my nose. I'm going to guess this has something to do with the silver nitrate.

Mark has me kind of worried. He's been more quiet and withdrawn than usual lately, and not just to me and the rest of the family, but also to his friends. Every time mom tries to start talking to him about how he's doing, he'll abruptly leave the room or change the subject. You know, maybe he's the one who should be seeing my damn psychiatrist instead of me.

I can remember when Mark first started acting like he does now, back in July of last year. (God, has it been that short of an amount of time since then?). Anyways, mom just thought it was a phase he was going through. I guess she could be right, and it could just be a long phase, but I doubt it. Just like there is a fine line between hobbies and obsessions, there's a fine line between phases and ways of life, at least in my experience.

Some people would probably say it isn't my place to be worrying about Mark, but it really is. I mean, he's the only younger brother I'll ever have. (Mom assured me of this years ago). I mean, the four of us are a family, and we all need to be here for each other. Oh just listen to me. This coming from the person who tried to kill himself twice because he couldn't handle the way his life was going?

Mom found out that she'll start her new job on, oddly enough, my sixteenth birthday. (This is getting a little creepy. First dad's surprise, which I shouldn't be thinking about right now, now this? What's next? Or do I want to know what's next?).

Other than that, there's really not too much going on right now.

-Randy

* * *

A/N: Don't worry, I'm posting another chapter later on today. It should be a little bit longer.

I just want to take some time real quick, and I hope you do the same, to wish Jonathan Taylor Thomas a happy birthday. I figured that this would be the most appropriate of my stories in which to do this.

So, please R&R, even though it was a short and practically non-existent chapter. (Sorry about that).

Thanks for reading. I'll post the next chapter sometime after three thirty, and before four this afternoon. (Can't tell you when for sure, because it'll depend on what time I get home, and what time I need to leave to go to a doctor appointment).

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	30. Chapter 29: January 23, 1998

Randy's Thoughts Chapter 29

Journal Entry for Friday January 23, 1998

What I wrote on Monday about Mark was true. Something is going on with him. I was getting a new tube of toothpaste out of my medicine cabinet this morning, when I noticed two things. One, my amitriptyline bottle has been moved from the left side to the right side. Okay, I thought, I must've just put it over on the right instead of the left the last time I used it. Then I noticed some of the pills are missing.

Now I guess I could be jumping to conclusions here, I mean, it might not be Mark that took the pills. It could've been Brad. After all, he is the known junkie. But I really, really think it was Mark. Him or his friend Ronnie. That guy brings a whole new definition to the word creepy.

But getting back to what I was saying, I don't know what to do. I don't know whether or not to tell mom about the pills. It was only three of them, but at the same time, three could lead to six, that could lead to nine, which could lead to the whole bottle, which could lead to hard core drugs, or, he could just skip all that and start doing hard drugs right away.

I guess I should tell her. Maybe she'd know how to figure out who it is.

On the other hand, what if it's nothing? What if this never happens again?

I think I know what I'll do. (Aside from making it seem like I'm talking to imaginary people who read this). Both Brad and Mark are going to parties tonight, so I'm going to hide in the shower, behind the curtain (duh!), and wait for the amitriptyline thief to make his move. It's a long shot, and it probably won't work since nothing will probably happen, but if it doesn't work tonight, then I'll try again. If after enough nights, it doesn't seem to be working, then I'll tell mom.

Well, I guess if I'm going to do this, I'd better go hide. Brad leaves for his party in forty five minutes, and Mark leaves for his an about an hour and a half. Yeah, I know, my social life sucks. I'm the only one that has no plans for tonight. (Well that _had_ no plans).

-Randy

* * *

Five Minutes Later

Randy's POV

I need to check the amount of amitriptyline first, to make sure the thief hasn't made his move yet.

I open the medicine cabinet, and pick up the bottle. It still has seven left in there, so that means I still have a chance. I put the bottle back, making sure to put it in the exact same spot I found it in this morning.

Then I get in the bathtub, making sure to remove my socks first so as not to get them wet. (I can't stand wet socks. The feel just drives me crazy). Then I draw the shower curtain most of the way shut, leaving just a small sliver open so I can see. Then I begin the boring process of waiting.

After about ten minutes of waiting, I hear someone pushing the door open. This is one time I'm glad to be short, so the person can't see me waiting in the tub. I summon up all my courage, then look through the little sliver of shower curtain I left open to see who it is.

* * *

A/N: I'll just leave it there for a few days.

R&R if you want to find out who the amitriptyline thief is. (And yes, I did have to look back a few chapters just to remember how to spell amitriptyline).

Thanks for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy "Who Took My Amitriptyline?" Taylor


	31. Chapter 30: January 23, 1998

Randy's Thoughts Chapter 30

Randy's POV

And the amitriptyline thief is...Mom?

'What are you doing in here?' I whisper, pushing the shower curtain back a little further so mom can see me.

'When I was putting away your tooth paste the other day, I noticed that you only had a few amitriptyline left in the bottle, and I knew that it hadn't been that long since you got a new prescription, so I decided to sneak in here and see who has been taking them' mom explains herself. Thank God she isn't the one stealing the pills.

'What are you doing in here?' mom asks me.

'Same thing as you. I noticed that the pills had been moved and that some were missing this morning. Come on, get in the shower with me' I say. She gives me a look, then figures out what I mean by the last sentence.

We stand there in the shower, waiting for something, anything, to happen. After about fifteen minutes of waiting, the door creaks open again.

The person walks over to the medicine cabinet, and opens it up. I still haven't looked to see who the person is though. When I do look, I see Brad standing at the medicine cabinet. Mom starts to make a move from the shower when I stop her. Brad is just using my nail clippers on his fingernails. Note to self: Rinse off nail clippers. And...eww...now Brad is using them on his toes. Ugh. Note to self: Throw out nail clippers. He finishes up, and leaves, carefully placing the nail clippers back where he found them. One more note to self: Disinfect medicine cabinet.

Then about forty minutes later, the door creaks open for a third time. I never thought I'd be so glad to have an unlubricated door.

'Just be sure to put the bottle back in the right place' Mark says to his friend Ronny. I exchange looks with mom. My look asks "Is Ronny supposed to be here?" and mom's look says "No!".

I begin to step out of the bathtub and bust Ronny, but mom stops me. Then I see Ronny is simply using my bottle of liquid soap. It's then that my hopes and spirits fall. It looks like we won't be catching the amitriptyline thief tonight. Ronny finishes washing his hands, and leaves the bathroom.

After Mark and Ronny leave, I turn around and just gaze out the window for a few minutes. Then I hear someone coming back up the stairs. I don't even bother to turn around.

All of a sudden, mom taps on my shoulder, and motions for me to turn around. I do so.

The someone who came up the stairs opens the door. I never knew my bathroom saw this much traffic. Maybe I should put in a tollbooth and start charging a dollar for everybody other than me and mom who comes in here.

I peer outside, hoping, praying that the person standing in the bathroom isn't Mark. What I see standing there, looking inside my open medicine cabinet, is Jerry Garcia. I toss a questioning look to mom, who mouths "Brad". I wasn't aware that he was going to a costume party. Well, I guess it's appropriate that Mr. Junkie is going to a party as Jerry Garcia.

Mom and I both push back either end of the shower curtain and step out of the bathtub at the same time. Brad/Jerry turns around and looks at mom and I.

'What's going on here?' mom asks Brad sharply.

'Well apparently the Grateful Dead were wrong. Casey Jones was driving that train high on amitriptyline, instead of cocaine' I joke, walking over in front of the bathroom door so Brad can't try to leave until our little intervention is over.

'How long have you been taking your brother's medicine Brad?' mom asks before Brad gets a chance to answer her first question.

'I think I could take a crack at that one, mom. It's been at least a couple of months. That's when I noticed just one or two pills missing. I didn't say or do anything then, because I just figured it was me going insane. But then this morning I noticed that eight of the pills were missing, and I decided that it couldn't have been me losing my sanity' I answer.

'This is it Brad. I'm getting you help. You have a serious problem with drugs apparently. And you can just forget about your parties and the school ski trip two weeks from now. For now, just go to your room and take off all the Jerry Garcia stuff' mom says.

'Well mom, I'm going to go downstairs and read for a while now' I tell mom.

I do, however, decide to make two detours. One, I stop by Brad's room. I knock on the door. He slightly opens it, and I force my way in.

'I just want to know one thing Brad. Why did you take the amitriptyline?' I ask.

'Because I'm just hooked on drugs, that's why' Brad says.

'Brad, I know that can't be true. Now tell me, what in the hell is going on?' I ask, starting to get frustrated.

'You'd never believe me. Hell, I don't even believe what's really going on' he mumbles.

'How will you ever be one hundred percent sure that I won't believe the truth if you don't tell me?' I reason.

'Because, it sounds fucking ridiculous! So just fuck off! I don't need your help, and I don't need mom's help either' Brad shouts.

* * *

A/N: So now Brad's on drugs, but why? You'll just have to stay tuned and R&R to find out.

The reason I chose for Brad's costume (and I have no idea why he's going to a costume party in January) to be Jerry Garcia is because that's just who I happen to be reading about right now. For a couple of minutes I did toy with the thought of making him Marilyn Monroe, but decided not to stick him in drag yet.

Thanks for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	32. Chapter 31: January 29, 1998

Chapter 31

Journal Entry for Thursday January 29, 1998

Brad is still mad at me for my mini-interrogation last Friday. He has been acting stranger than normal though. I guess I'll find out why in time.

I haven't noticed any more amitriptyline missing, so I'm assuming mom and I were successful. At least for now.

Mom brought up a subject that I don't much want to discuss the other night. She mentioned setting up an appointment to go see that neurosurgeon, Dr. Ultameier, again, so we could talk about getting those bullet fragments removed.

I don't even want to think about all the complications that could arise during brain surgery like this. I mean, what if one of the surgeons makes a mistake, and winds up damaging my brain and turning me into a vegetable for the rest of my life? What if it messes up my spinal cord or something and I'm paralyzed? What if something causes my brain to start bleeding? What if it affects my memory or my motor skills?

Of course, mom had answers (or should I say questions) to all those questions. What if it doesn't? What if it helps you feel better? What if they _don't _remove the bullet pieces?

So, like it or not, I go see this Dr. Ultameier on February 3, this next Tuesday. Yeah, I have a jam packed day that day. I go see Dr. Ultameier at 9:30 in the morning, Dr. Mabry (the nose doctor) at 1:00, and Dr. Johnson.

That last doctor is a new one. I'm going to see her about my asthma, which mom seems to think has been flaring up lately. Which it has, even though I'll never mention that to anyone else.

I can still remember when my asthma was really bad as a little kid. I remember how scared everyone, my self included, was whenever I'd have one. It's like trying to breath through a straw while you have a finger covering the other end of the straw. (If you don't believe me, try it).

I think I even still have some of those Albuterol inhalers someplace. Well, maybe I should say mom still has them. That stuff tastes so nasty sometimes, but I guess I can't complain about it too much if it keeps me breathing.

A thought just occurred to me the other day. In just under a couple of years, we're going to be in a whole new century. The one thing I don't understand, is those people who make the argument that the 21st century doesn't begin until 2001. That's like saying the nineties are the years between 91 and 99. What's 1990? It's not part of the eighties, that's for sure.

Anyways, I guess I'll get off my soap box now and go to bed and try to get some sleep.

-Randy

* * *

A/N: Please R&R!

Thanks for reading.

Oh, and by the way, the reason I'm updating all my stories today is because I have to have yet another surgery done on my nose. This is supposed to be the final one though.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	33. Chapter 32: February 3, 1998

Chapter 32

Journal Entry for Tuesday February 3, 1998

Where do I start?

I have heard so much information about my health today, it isn't even funny. It's practically mind numbing.

Speaking of brains, maybe I should start there. Dr. Ultameier has said that the bullet fragments are still on the move inside my skull, and definitely must be removed. Much to my dismay, they (mom, the doctor, the nurses) went ahead and set a date (March 12) to have this operation done. Lucky me.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm not looking forward to getting the bullet pieces (or fragments as everyone keeps calling them) out of my head, it's just the operation that bothers…oh, who am I kidding, it's the operation that _scares_ me. I'm afraid of going under the knife.

Dr. Johnson proved me and mom right, and said that my asthma is flaring up. She gave me a prescription for Albuterol to take as needed.

Dr. Mabry was the only doctor I saw today that had good news about my health (or in the case of the other two doctors, lack there of). He said that my nose is looking good, and I don't have to go back and see him for a month now. It may not seem like much, but considering I've been seeing him at least once every week since I had the cauterization done, it is.

It's only five days now until my birthday, and possibly that birthday surprise dad isn't here to give me. I've tried thinking about the surprise occasionally, but keep drawing a blank. I have no idea what the surprise could be; and I have to admit, it's driving me crazy.

I can't hardly believe that I'm going to be sixteen years old this year. I'll be able to get my driver's license finally; although I'm not sure I want it now, after all that happened to dad.

Dad's probably thinking "Bite your tongue, Randy! Of course you want your driver's license, you're a Taylor for crying out loud."

Too bad dad can't be thinking that now. I just don't think I can buy into that whole life after death thing. I mean, yeah, so there is such a being or presence as God, but neither heaven or hell seem to make sense. Now, I'm not trying to sound like those scientists who worship _Darwin's Theory of Evolution _or anything, but to think that the planet Earth is only the first stop along the way in your soul's life just seems like a bit of a stretch. The saying even says, you only go around once. Not twice, or three or four times. I think there are some days where mom would like to slap me for thinking these kinds of things, especially after dad died. She tries to be supportive, I know, but her unhappiness, shall we say, shows sometimes.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the long wait between updates, but first I was recovering from my surgery, then I began a race with the clock over trying to finish Nine Months of Hell in time (which I just finished this afternoon).

Well, I hope there are still some readers left out there in readerland that are reading this story. If you all are, please R&R!

Thanks for reading, and thanks for not committing first degree murder on me yet for not updating before now.

Happy Halloween everybody!

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	34. Chapter 33: February 6, 1998

Chapter 33

Randy's POV

'Mark! Mark! Come on, wake up! You're really starting to worry me here. If this is a joke, I swear I'm going to punch you' I shout at Mark's limp body. He was running down the stairs when he lost his balance and fell over the side of the banister.

I don't even know who or what he was running from. I had just got back from Wilson's house when I saw him on the staircase.

I hear the thud of a window closing somewhere in the house. This wouldn't bother me except for the fact that nobody else is home. Then I hear footsteps in the hallway upstairs.

I abandon my post by Mark to try to find something to protect myself and Mark with. In the kitchen I find a large bread knife, and then silently wait for the person to come downstairs.

While I'm waiting, a thousand thoughts race through my head. Maybe I should grab the phone and call 9-1-1. No, it would take them too long. Maybe I should go back over to Wilson's. He could help. No, the mystery person would probably catch me in the act. I guess I don't have a choice but to stay here and face this on my own.

Finally I hear a creaking sound that announces the perpetrator's presence on the lower flight of stairs. I step out into the open, wielding my knife somewhat awkwardly. I immediately recognize the man standing over Mark's body as Joakim Paris, one of the people indicted with charges of killing dad. He got off because the prosecution couldn't prove beyond reasonable doubt he had been on the highway the night dad was killed.

'What are you doing?' I demand.

'I came here to get the money your dad owed me, and I still intend to do so, one way or another' he says, intentionally revealing his pistol to me.

'Now you can either give me the money, or your brother here is going to suffer the same fate you almost did four months ago' he threatens, brandishing his pistol and pointing it toward Mark's head.

'We…I…I don't have- Well, how much money do you want?' I stammer.

'150,000 dollars. That's how much your father owes me total' answers the man.

'I don't have that much money' I explain.

'Incorrect answer' he says, then readjusts the aim of his pistol to Mark's upper thigh. Then he pulls the trigger.

'Wanna try that again? Next time, he will get it in the head' Paris says.

Before I have a chance to respond, there's a knock at the door. I look at Paris, who shakes his head no, smiling maliciously all the while. I obey, and remain motionless and silent, absent mindedly rubbing my thumb on the handle of the now useless bread knife.

There's another knock.

'Detroit PD! Open up!' commands a powerful voice that I don't recognize. Once again, Paris shakes his head, only he's giving me a serious look now that says "Just try to open that door, and you'll be dead before you get half way there".

'We just want to know if everyone is alright in there' the voice outside the door shouts.

'Yes, we're doing just peachy officer. You can leave now' Paris says in a mock polite voice. Then he adds 'If you try to come in here though, then we might have some medical problems'.

A few moments of silence pass by before there's a thud at the front door. Then another one, and finally the door goes flying off its hinges, courtesy of one of Detroit's finest.

'Freeze!' he shouts.

'Alright, I warned you what would happen if you came in' Joakim Paris growls. Even though the police officer is standing right in the middle of the room, he still spins around, picks Mark's body up, and thrusts the gun right in the middle of Mark's head. The policeman fires his revolver at Paris, but misses, and hits Mark instead. He's quick to fire off a second shot, which hits Paris in the shin.

I go running over to Mark, who's laying in a pool of blood that is quickly increasing in size.

'This is Officer Lark. I need a bus at 510 Glenview Road for a GSW to the head' the officer says into one of those radio things that cops carry.

Once Officer Lark pries Mark away from me (to try to control the bleeding), I notice that I am drenched in blood.

'Randy, can you hear me? Randy, your nose is bleeding. Can you hear me? Randy?' I hear Mark say. I sit straight up in bed when I realize I had only been dreaming. Then I realize that I am in fact covered in blood (albeit my own), and that my nose is bleeding.

Wait a second, how can my nose be bleeding?

* * *

A/N: Sorry for yet _another _long wait in between updates. I swear, some day soon, I will get all of my stories caught up, and will start regularly updating again. It's just going to take me a little while.

As always, please R&R if you're still reading this.

Thanks for reading and for not completely giving up on me or this story.

Be sure to keep an eye out for the next chapter, because it will have the much anticipated birthday surprise in it.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	35. Chapter 34: February 8, 1998

Chapter 34

February 8, 1998

'A key? A key! What does this go to? What's it for?' I ask when Wilson shows me the "surprise" that dad left for me for my sixteenth birthday.

'There's a note with it too' Wilson says, pulling a Post It note out of the box. He hands it to me to read.

_Randy, if you're reading this, then that means that something has happened to me. If so, tell your mom and brothers that I love them, and be sure to thank Wilson for doing this._

_But anyways, take this key down to the First Bank on Main Street. Tell them that you need to get into safety deposit box number 899. The teller should ask you for a password. The password is "Toolman". There'll be another note in the safety deposit box telling you what to do from there._

_-Dad_

'I guess we'd better get going then Wilson' I say.

All during the drive to the bank, I keep wondering what the surprise could possibly be.

Once we get to the bank, we get in the shortest line, which is made up of at least five people. When it's finally our turn, I tell the teller what we're here for, and just like dad said, she asks for a password. When I tell her, she looks at me skeptically. Then she enters it in the computer and the look of shock is obvious on her face. After we get the box, the teller leads us to a small room that is similar in appearance to a changing room at a department store, only without a mirror.

We open the box, and inside is another key, and another Post It. Wilson takes the key out, whereas I immediately make a pounce on the note.

_Okay, that's two steps down. Now take this key to the storage center on North Jefferson, and use it to open unit number 7. There'll be another surprise there, and another note that will explain a lot to you. I do expect you to keep the last note secret from everyone except for Wilson. You're doing great Randy, keep it up._

_-Dad_

_P.S. When you get to the storage unit, think about me._

I pocket the key and the note, and we put the safety deposit box back and leave the bank.

'I think I'm honestly more anxious to read this note than to get this surprise' I comment on the way over to the storage lots. Wilson just kind of nods upon hearing this.

The attendant at the storage lots uses the second key to open up the garage door to unit number 7.

My jaw drops when I see what's inside. I can't even speak, I'm so shocked. Sitting right in the middle of the unit is a blue Jaguar XKR. I walk over to it, still amazed. This was dad's big surprise. I love it. I try to open the door, but it's locked.

'How am I supposed to get into it? It's locked up tighter than the Menendez brothers' I say. I scan the room looking for a shelf, a hook, or anything that could possibly be the resting place of a key, and see nothing but a thermostat.

'This sure is one cool car Randy' Wilson says.

'Yeah, but that doesn't solve my problem. It doesn't matter how great it is if I can't get into it' I say.

'What I mean is, you'll look very hot driving down the road as fast as lightning in this cool, cool car' Wilson says.

'Ah, gotcha' I say. I walk over to the thermostat and discover that it's actually a wall safe. Apparently I'm supposed to enter in a three letter code to open the safe. What did that last note say, think of dad when I get here? Maybe…just maybe that's it. I try entering in "TIM" on the device. It swings open, and inside is what I'm assuming is the key to the Jag. I take the key from the blue satin pillow it's resting on, and walk over to the driver's side door of the car. It opens.

I get inside, and immediately discover that the seat is pushed back way too far for me to be able to drive it. I reach down under the seat to adjust it, and feel two plastic bags. I pull both out. One has a piece of legal paper folded up inside of it. Both are crammed to the brim with money.

'Wilson., what's all of this?' I ask, suddenly afraid to be sitting here. Afraid that this is all illegal.

'I honestly have no idea. Your father never mentioned any of this to me' he says.

I unzip the bag with the piece of paper in it, and take the note out after looking around to make sure that no one is around to see the huge bags of money.

_Randy, I know what your first thought is going to be when you see the plastic bags. You're going to think you should contact the authorities about everything. Please don't._

_The car is a gift from one of my friends who is (or perhaps by now was) an executive with the company that manufactures Jaguars. It's a new kind, called the Jaguar XKR. My friend owed me a favor, and this is what I requested. I hope you like it._

_Now your biggest question right now is probably about the money. For that, I need to give you the whole story._

_Back in 1975, I got hooked on pot. I still consider that to be the biggest mistake of my life. For three years, I was one of Detroit's best known dealers, even catering to celebrities and athletes. Then in 1978, I made what seemed like a mistake at the time, but actually wound up saving my life. I sold drugs to someone I believed to be an ordinary man, but was in fact a detective from the Detroit PD's narcotics department. I wound up going to jail and serving a small sentence._

_After I did my time, I got out and immediately went to a McDonald's to celebrate. There, I had the unfortunate experience of hurling on a young lady's shoes due to an undercooked hamburger. That lady was your mother. We got together and had a whirlwind engagement and got married in February of 1979._

_Even with a lovely wife at home, a baby (Brad) on the way, and a great job as the number one tool salesman at Binford, I still couldn't stay away from drugs. Then one day in 1985, I woke up on the front porch, completely naked, high as hell, and in a puddle of my own urine. It's then that I realized that I had to stop. I had two kids and a wife, and I couldn't be going out and doing this. I had an amount of money left over from drug sales that day when I went cold turkey. I don't even remember the amount. That money is the money in these plastic bags._

_Now I want you to read and understand this. This money is for you; and you only. Not your mom, not Brad or Mark, but for you._

_You might be asking why I'd leave all of this only to you. That morning, what sealed the deal for me was when you came downstairs with your mother and Brad and saw me out on the porch, naked, stoned, drunk, and lying in my own pee. Brad never saw it, and Mark wasn't born yet. In my heart, I know nothing could ever make that up to you, but you still deserve this money. Spend it wisely._

_Now, there's only one problem in all of this. What will you tell your mother? Tell her the truth about the car. Tell her that the money was in a special bank account that I opened specifically for this purpose. Hopefully she'll believe you._

_The last thing I need to address to you is why I'm not here. Chances are, either something happened to me on Tool Time, or some old drug business went awry. In the case of the latter,_

_-Dad_

* * *

A/N: Just so you know, the part at the end of Tim's last letter is intentionally blank. I can't let you all know everything about Tim's death. (Yes, Tim _is_ still dead).

So, anyways, I'm happy to report that this is the longest chapter (and my favorite) so far for this story.

Please read and review, it's much appreciated!

Thanks for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	36. Chapter 35: February 9, 1998

Chapter 35

Journal Entry for Monday February 9, 1998

Mom's reaction when I pulled into the driveway in my brand new Jag was priceless. I still haven't figured out what I'm going to tell her about all the money. I snuck it in the house a little later on in the day yesterday when she had to leave to go get more frosting for my cake.

I counted it up, and the total amount in the two storage bags equals $9,997. I thought my thumbs were going to bleed before I got through counting it all.

But back to what I was writing about before, I'm just not sure what to tell mom about how I got the money. I'm debating on dad's special bank account story, but I'm not sure whether or not she's going to buy it. And, though I'm not a very materialistic person, I hate the thought of giving up ten thousand dollars; just forking it all over to police because it's drug money.

There's so much I could do with this money. I could actually put it in a bank account and let it earn interest and use it to help pay for college. Or I could invest it in some kind of bond.

That makes me think of the time when Brad, Mark, and I decided we wanted to invest the money from our savings bonds (fifty dollars each) by buying baseball cards, but wound up buying an autographed Andy Pafko race car instead. Long story short, the investment crashed, literally, and we wound up losing a total of $150.

Good God, look at this. I have spent the past five paragraphs writing about nothing but money. I think that's more than I've ever written about money throughout my whole entire life.

But the Jag and the crop of cash weren't the only highlights of my sweet sixteen. Mom baked a cake (with grandma's help so it would be edible), and it actually tasted pretty good. Brad and Mark chipped in to buy the next book in the Midnight Louie mystery series, _Cat on a Hyacinth Hunt_. (It **is** in hard back, so it isn't that cheap). Mom got me a new watch since the one I have keeps dying. I'm not kidding, I took it in to a shop that fixes watches a few weeks ago, and the man who worked there told me what my problem was. See, I was wearing a Rolex, which according to the man at the watch repair shop, is not a watch, but is a piece of jewelry. Grandma gave me fifty dollars (ah cash, the great old standby gift of grandparents. It's fit for a child at any age!).

On the opposite side of the spectrum of all the aforementioned, I got a not so great surprise yesterday evening. I was watching The X Files when my nose started bleeding. It wouldn't bother me so much, except for the side that is bleeding is the side that has already been cauterized! And to think that Dr. Mabry wants to do a cautery on the left side too!

I'd really like to know what the hell is causing it to bleed. As David Duchovny (Fox Mulder) would say, "the truth is out there". Maybe he and Gillian Anderson should come and investigate my nose. That'd probably be the one mystery they couldn't solve. Hey, at least then I could go and be on Unsolved Mysteries. Maybe I could even get Robert Stack to interview me!

Okay, now I am officially just rambling for the sake of writing.

Something just dawned on me. I can't show this journal entry to my damn psychiatrist. (No, he'll never be Dr. Sydney Elliot to me). If I did, even though there's the whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing, he'd still have to report the drug money that dad gave me to the authorities. Oh well, I guess February 9th just wasn't meant to exist. I guess I'll just tear this one out and cut it up with scissors.

Okay, if I'm going to do that, why do I keep writing? And look, I'm still writing!

-Randy (I'm like the Energizer Bunny. I just keep going and going and going and going and going and going and going and going and going and going and going and going and going…)

* * *

A/N: Hey, maybe next time I update, it will be sooner than a month!

Anyways, please R&R, otherwise _I'll _have to sic Scully and Mulder on you. (And I don't think that you want David Duchovny stalking you, especially after his…issues he was having last year).

Thanks for reading, and remember people, the truth is out there.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	37. Chapter 36: February 12, 1998

Chapter 36

Journal Entry for Thursday February 12, 1998

I'm up late again, so I figure, hey, I might as well do a journal entry. After all, I have to go see Dr. Elliot (aka my damn psychiatrist) tomorrow, and I need another entry after…the horrible accident that happened to Tuesday's.

Speaking of which, I told mom about the money. I told her it was something that he and Wilson did as a surprise gift. She bought it, although I saw her outside grilling Wilson later on. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Tell her that dad had a secret Swiss bank account? As far as I know, dad has never even been to Switzerland.

I'm still thinking about what I should do with the money. Save it to use to pay for college? Maybe buy something for mom? I don't know. Whatever I do, I probably shouldn't put it in a bank account, because that kind of money would draw a lot of the wrong kind of attention, and I don't particularly want government agents asking questions.

I do think grandma knows something about…what happened to Tuesday's journal entry. She was asking some questions earlier, but I didn't say anything. Not after…

Who am I telling this to anyway? Oh I don't guess it really matters.

Maybe I should just get back to why I'm up at 1:27 in the morning. I was in that half sleep state, where you can still hear things, and you're somewhat conscious, but you're still asleep at the same time. I swear I heard a man say "Hello?" That brought me out of the world of sleep into the waking world. I've been trying for the past forty five minutes to get back to sleep. Finally, I just gave up. I don't know if I'll be able to get any more sleep this morning or not. That voice, it was unlike anything I've ever heard before. It sounded…like a ghost's voice almost. It was soft, faint, soothing, and over all other-worldly. It freaked me out too much to feel comfortable closing my eyes again; at least for tonight.

My nose has been doing fairly well over the past couple days. It hasn't bled but once, which is good, for more than one reason. I guess since it's bled so much over the past however many months, it's really starting to get sore on the inside, so now, in addition to being disgusting and just a general pain in the butt when it bleeds, it hurts, too. It feels like someone poured an entire bottle of lighter fluid in there and then stuck a lit match up my nostril. Honestly, it hurts more than it did after it was cauterized.

I guess that's all that's new for right now.

-Randy

* * *

A/N: Okay, I'll admit. I'm getting desperate for ideas for this story. It's not that I don't have big ideas, I just need smaller ones to get me to the bigger ideas. The way things look right now, it doesn't look like RT is going to make it 100 chapters. Therefore, I'm lowering my goal to around 50. (It's still a lot more than I ever thought I'd wind up writing when I started writing this story on April 20. Then I thought I'd do good to write 15 chapters).

Please R&R, and if you have any ideas, any at all, feel free to let me know what they are. If I decide to use yours, then I'll give you credit in the author's note.

Thanks for reading, if in fact there's anyone still reading this.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	38. Chapter 37: March 11, 1998

Chapter 37

Journal Entry for Wednesday March 11, 1998

If Grandpa Patterson was still alive, he'd probably ask me what I'm doing up at oh-200. Of course, he'd probably understand, having had his knee surgery before and all. He kept grandma up all night talking. The day of his surgery, she got more sleep than he did.

The truth is, I am nervous about my impending brain surgery tomorrow. Of course, I haven't been getting much sleep since I thought I saw dad's ghost in my room. Not that I believe in ghosts or the spirit world or afterlife or all that. Okay, maybe I didn't use to believe in all those things, but I'm not sure what I believe anymore. I'm not even sure why I believe what I believe I believe. I mean, I don't know if I'm just grasping at ways to think dad doesn't haven't to stop existing just because he's dead, or if his death has just made me…how should I put it?, a little less non-stoic.

Back to the whole surgery thing, it does scare me, and I'm not afraid to admit it. I know I was scared for the cauterization on my nose, and that turned out fine, but this is a lot more invasive and a lot riskier. Even Dr. Ultameier has admitted that much. I mean, that team of neurosurgeons tomorrow are literally going to be responsible for my mental state.

It seems like the more and more I find out about this "bullet-ectomy" (hey, what would you call it?), the worse it gets. The team of doctors will literally be drilling into my skull and removing the bullet fragments from my actually brain. I didn't care to ask for the finer details on that part. The surgery, in all, is supposed to last seventeen hours, each of which, I'm sure is going to be pure torture on mom. Then, after the final bullet fragment has been removed (assuming they can all be removed), it's still another three hours until anyone will be able to find out the effects the surgery had on my brain and mental capabilities. I don't know if you've ever had surgery, but let me tell you, even one hour of unconsciousness is an unpleasant thought, let alone nineteen more.

I can tell that mom is real nervous about the surgery (I keep referring to it as "the surgery" because I can't either pronounce or spell the official name of it to save my life), but she's trying to be strong. I pretend that I don't notice for her sake.

Brad isn't quite sure what to think about the surgery. I wouldn't say that he's one hundred percent for me having this surgery. The only real reaction I've gotten out of him is happiness; because he gets to miss several days of school both while I have the surgery done and recover from it.

Mark seems a bit more concerned. (Not that I don't think Brad's concerned, he just isn't letting it show). He's been trying to spend more time with me as of late, just in case I don't…I'm not even going to finish that. I'm going to think positive about this. I'm going to come out of this surgery and be back to my normal self. Even more so than I already am.

I guess I'll go back to playing computer solitaire now until it's time to get up in another two hours. An interesting fact: Did you know that it is supposedly possible to win every game of solitaire before you make your first move? I read that in a magazine the other day.

-Randy

* * *

A/N: Before I do this author's note, let's all join in me in singing "Happy Birthday" to Randy's Thoughts, in honor of his first birthday today! (Technically, I started writing on April 20, but it wasn't first published until this day.

Now on with the author's note!

As I've already said on Crash, I know it's been a long time since I last updated. Hopefully all that is going to be changing, starting right now.

I hope everyone who's still reading this enjoyed this chapter. If you did, please R&R.

Thanks for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	39. Chapter 38: March 12, 1998

Chapter 38

Thursday March 12, 1998

Randy's POV

Surgery is torture. Pre-surgery is even worse. Right now, I'm sitting back in a little waiting room with mom, Brad, Mark, and grandma. The TV is tuned in to _The View, _and they are currently discussing something that has to do with sexism in politics of the southern states. Geez.

'Randy Taylor' a woman calls from the door. I get up, and so does mom.

'Brad, Mark, you two stay out here and wait. Lucille, you can come back with us if you want to' mom says.

'Oh no, that's alright, I'll stay here with the boys. Good luck with the surgery Randy' grandma says.

The nurse who called my name leads mom and me to the left, down a drafty corridor, and then into an even draftier large room with 6 gurneys set up along with an assortment of cabinets, machines, IVs, and other medical supplies. On the way, she introduced herself as Mary.

'What I'm going to have you do now is go into that bathroom over there' Mary points to the aforementioned bathroom. 'Then you need to take your clothes off and put them in this bag' she says, handing me the bag. 'Then put on this hospital gown and these socks to keep your feet warm.' Mary hands me the socks with the little grippers/tread on the bottoms of them and the gown. 'If you need help getting the gown fastened, and believe me, you will, then you can ask either me or your mom.'

So I take the sack, the gown, and the socks and head over to the bathroom. Once inside, I make sure to use the restroom one more time before the surgery. Just then it occurs to me that during the surgery, I'll probably have to have a catheter put in. Ah, such lovely thoughts. Then I take off my shoes and then my shirt and jeans. I didn't think to ask whether I should take off my underwear or not, so I just leave them on. Then I sit down on the little bench between the toilet and the sink and take my socks off. I put the ones that Nurse Mary gave me on before I let my feet touch the floor again. I have a thing about touching any kind of floor in a hospital with my bare skin, let alone a hospital bathroom floor. Then I put my shoes, socks, shirt, jeans, and watch in the large bag that I was given. I stand up and put the gown on, with the open side on my back. I then wash my hands, grab a couple paper towels to dry them, and pick up the bag. I put the bag in my right hand, and reach around my back to clamp the gown shut. There may be only three people out there, but it's the principle of it.

I walk this way, bent over to my left, to the bed where I see mom sitting, talking to Mary, who has a clipboard in her left hand, and a ballpoint pen poised in her right. I get to the bed (which is conveniently enough the one closest to the bathroom. Hey, being the first surgery of the day has its perks).

'And is Randy currently on any medication?' I hear Mary ask mom when I get there.

'No' mom answers.

'Alright then. Randy, I'll let you get settled into bed, then I'll be back to get your IV started' Mary says to me. She puts the pen back on the clipboard, and pulls the curtain closed behind her as she leaves.

Mom ties the gown up in the back, and then I get in bed and immediately have to get up again so I'm not sitting on the gown. That makes things a little too snug all over. I sit down on the bed, this time without the gown underneath me. By the time I have the blankets pulled up and adjusted to my liking, Mary is back with what I'm assuming is an IV kit.

'Have you ever had an IV in you before?' Mary asks as she's getting something ready for the IV.

'No, not that I remember' I answer.

'Once, when he was two and a half' mom answers.

'Alright, well here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to tie this tourniquet around your arm to make the veins bulge, and then when I've found a suitable vein, I'll sterilize the spot on your arm using an alcohol wipe, and then I'll insert the needle into your vein, and then I'll insert the IV. Now, do you have a preference to what arm you want it done in?' Mary explains.

'I'd prefer to have it in the left one' I say. I think I could probably have done without the in depth description of how an IV is started. It's bad enough to watch one on ER.

'When I insert the needle into your vein, it will sting for a few seconds' Mary says. I fight the urge to say "ya think?"

'Alright, I think I have one here' she says. I look away, close my eyes, and grit my teeth as the needle enters the vein.

Several moments later, Mary has the IV in and taped up and the pain in my arm is minimal.

After she gets the IV in, Mary leaves and on her way out says the anesthesiologist should be in momentarily.

Sure enough, a couple minutes later, the anesthesiologist comes in and asks a few questions, and then starts an IV drip of something he calls Propofol.

About ten minutes later, Dr. Ultameier shows up. I was starting to get a little out of it at this point, so the only thing I could really comprehend was that he still had his sunglasses on, even though he was inside the building.

Then Mary's back. She tells me she needs to shave some of the hair off my head.

After that's over, Mary and another nurse, Samantha, start wheeling me back to the OR. Mom tells me she loves me and reassures me that everything will go fine and I'll come out of this better than ever.

I manage to keep my eyes open on the "ride" back to the OR. I can tell as soon as we hit the hallway to the operating rooms because the already low temperature drops even more. Mary promises me that there will be more heated blankets back in the operating room.

They wheel me into OR #2 and right up next to the operating bed. There yet another new nurse tells me I need to scoot over onto the other bed. Once I get over there, I just lie back and let the surgical team do the rest of the work. Two nurses put up arm rests for arms that have straps on them so they don't fall off. They put a strap over my legs too. The anesthesiologist puts a mask over my mouth and nose that delivers a mixture of oxygen and more Propofol. The last thing I remember is Mary telling me she's putting more blankets on me. Then I drift off to la-la land.

* * *

A/N: The next chapter will be surgery, Part II.

Everything in this chapter should be pretty accurate, because it's based off of my experiences with having surgery done.

Please R&R!

Thanks for reading and not abandoning me and/or Randy's Thoughts.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	40. Chapter 39: March 12, 1998

Chapter 39

Randy's POV

I wake up. Is the surgery over? Where am I? I'm…I'm in the Nomad. What is going on? Dad's driving!

I know what this is. This must be the anesthesia. This is probably all just a dream. I lie here a minute and try to figure out what's going on. After a couple of minutes, dad pulls into a gas station. I decide to go along with this dream, and pile out of the car with everyone else.

Once I get inside the stall in the restroom, I try thinking things over again. If this is a dream, it's the most realistic one I've ever had.

Of course! I can pinch myself. If I'm dreaming, then it won't hurt. But what if it does? What if I do something to make myself wake up on the operating table? But if this isn't a dream, then I have nothing to worry about. But if it is, then that means things are normal. If this isn't, a dream that is, then this has to be reality, and the other thing is a dream. But they're both so real. Ugh! This is just making my head hurt.

I finish up in the bathroom, get a bottle of water, and go back to the car. I take a swig of the water, and lean back in the seat, and try to go back to sleep. If that's even possible to do in dreams.

* * *

Randy's POV

I'm in the operating room. I'm hovering above the table, looking down on myself. I look over at the clock. Six hours have passed. It looks like the nurses are rotating out.

'Heidi ho good doctor' one says. I didn't know Wilson was a nurse too. I thought he was just a midwife. If this is supposed to surprise me, it doesn't.

I stay for a little while and watch the surgery.

* * *

Randy's POV

Now I'm in the waiting room. Wow, this is amazing. It looks like Brad and Mark are actually getting along! They're sitting together in a corner, talking. I walk over and listen in.

'I'm worried something's going to happen to Randy' Mark says.

'He'll be fine. He'll come out of it as good as ever' Brad assures Mark. I wait for the sarcastic remark. The "gee, do you think we could get him to come out of this and have a whole different personality". It doesn't come.

'I know you're probably right, but it's just with the way things have been going for us the past six months…' Mark says.

'I know things have changed a lot' Brad says.

'Yeah. I never would've guessed in a million years that Randy would do some of the things he did. I mean, with the alcohol and all that' Mark says.

'I guess every one of us has our own way of dealing with dad's death. Mom focused her time and energy into becoming the manager at Wal-Mart. Randy did his thing you mentioned' Brad says.

'You started using Randy's Amitriptyline' Mark added. At this, Brad's eyes get big and he just stares at Mark for a minute.

'How do you know about that?' Brad asks for the both of us.

'You know Randy's journal thing he does for that psychiatrist, that Dr. Berry? Well, I found it a couple of months ago. I found both of them hidden inside the K-M book in his encyclopedia series' Mark explains. *Mental note: Move journals somewhere safer*

'Why were you looking for it?' Brad asks, lowering his voice even more.

'I wasn't. I needed the encyclopedia, and I just happened to find them in there. I didn't know what they were, so I opened them up and started reading. I know I should've stopped, but I guess a little part of me was worried that maybe he had some kind of plan for a third suicide attempt and I thought maybe if I read about it; I could keep it from happening' Mark explains.

Brad turns around and checks the surroundings. There's one other person in the room besides mom and grandma, not counting the woman who checks people in. The hallway which has a vending machine down it is deserted.

'Mark, I'm going to go get a soda. Why don't you come with me and get one too?' Brad says.

Brad gets up and tells mom of his plans. Mark follows him. I get up too, and walk along side Brad, not wanting to miss a second of their imminent conversation.

'Look Brad, I know reading Randy's journal was wrong, so I don't need a lecture about it' Mark says once their well out of mom and grandma's earshot.

'That's not what I want to talk to you about. We're brothers. We may not have always treated each other the best, but no matter what, we're still brothers. To tell you the truth, I would've probably done the same thing before dad died. But dad dying, and then Randy attempting suicide made me see something. It made me realize that we've taken things for granted. We've always lived our lives like if we had a fight, and we have had our fair share of them, the person we're arguing with will always be there for us to make up with. But that isn't what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to tell you that dad's death is not why I started taking Randy's Amitriptyline. There's an entirely different reason for that. It's something I don't want you to mention to anyone, including mom' Brad says.

'Not even Wilson?' Mark asks.

'No, especially not Wilson' Brad says.

I stay a little while longer, but nothing else really happens. Brad and Mark reminisce about all the good times we had together. They both say some things about me that I think I can use against them if the need should ever arise. Then my mind goes blank again.

This time, I'm back in the operating room. At first, I'm hovering over my body, then I see weird things start to happen. The head surgeon turns into a giant rabbit, the nurse by my side becomes a walnut, and Wilson becomes invisible. Then I get sucked back into my body, and remain unconscious for the rest of the surgery.

* * *

Jill's POV

A little over twelve hours into the surgery, a man in blue scrubs with a white mask on comes out to the waiting room and sits down in front of me at just about the time I'm considering going over to the window and jumping out of it just to wake myself up a little bit.

'Heidi ho, worried neighborette' he says.

'Wilson, what are you doing here?' I ask.

'I'm filling in for a nurse who was supposed to be working on Randy today. I figured I'd just come out and give you an update' Wilson responds.

'Thank you. So, how's he doing? I ask.

'Well, as I'm sure you know, we're about two thirds of the way through the surgery now. So far, Randy's doing fine. Everything is going the way it should be. It looks like all of the bullet fragments are going to be removable. In fact, the surgery might finish a little early' he says.

'Oh thank God. I have been so worried. I don't suppose you can just keep running back and forth between the operating room and here, can you?' I ask.

'I'm afraid not, Jill. I have to get down to the recovery room to fill in there. It might not make you feel much better, but Randy is in the hands of the best neurosurgeons in the tri-state area.

'Well, I must be going' Wilson says, then stands up.

He's right. I can't say that I feel that much better.

* * *

A/N: Alright, this one's finally done. The chapter, that is, not the story.

I don't believe I've ever given Randy's psychiatrist a name before or not. I looked, but couldn't find it, but I could've missed it, so if you remember it or find it, let me know and I'll change it in this chapter.

Please read and review. Thanks for both.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	41. Chapter 40: March 13, 1998

Chapter 40

March 13, 1998

Randy's POV

I have an oxygen mask on over my face. A layer of freshly warmed blankets cover my body. I open my eyes. I wish I hadn't. The light, while fluorescent, is still bright and burns my eyes and hurts my already in pain head.

I hear a nurse talking to another patient coming out of anesthesia.

'One more question. What year is it?' he asks.

'2025' the nurse answers. What?!

'It's been twenty seven years since I went under?' I try shouting, but with the mask, it sounds more like random mumbles.

'Heidi ho good patient' another nurse, dressed all in blue with a white mask over his face says.

'Wilson?' I ask.

'Absolutely. Don't worry, those two were just joking around. It's still 1998' Wilson says.

I point to the mask and raise an eyebrow. Hey, it's easier than trying to be heard through the freakin' thing.

'You can take that off once you get back to your room' he answers.

I point at my wrist, where a watch would normally be, using my IV free hand.

'Any minute now' Wilson tells me. I nod my head once.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, another nurse arrives to help Wilson move my bed back to my own private room. As soon as we leave the recovery room, the temperature drops to the subzero feeling temperature these wings of hospitals are normally kept at.

We take an elevator to the sixth floor. We turn right then go all the way down the hall. My room is the last one on the left, number 697.

To my surprise, mom, Mark, Brad, and grandma are all waiting for me, wide awake.

Wilson and Marsha, the other nurse, wheeled my current bed to the right of a fresh one without wheels.

'As soon as you're ready Randy, slide yourself over onto the other bed' Wilson says after he and Marsha adjusted machines, wires, and tubes that do God only knows what. Using hip action I never knew I had, I finally get scooted all the way onto the other bed.

'We're going to put this pulse ox on to check your oxygen saturation level. If it's normal, then you can take the mask off' Marsha says. She puts a small machine kind of shaped like a clothes pin on one of my fingertips.

'Alright, your oxygen level is right on target' Marsha says. She then reaches around behind my head and takes the oxygen mask off of my head.

I glance over at mom. I wonder how she's been doing through this whole process. Wilson is over there, explaining something to her right now. He finishes up talking to mom and grabs a blood pressure cuff.

'I just need to take your blood pressure, then we'll leave you alone for a little while' Wilson says. I grimace as the cuff tightens on my arm. It doesn't hurt, it just isn't comfortable.

'120 over 80' he mumbles while he writes something on my chart.

'Is that good or bad?' mom asks.

'That's generally considered to be normal' Wilson tells her.

'If you need anything else, just push the white button that says nurse's station. I'll be on well into the morning' he says before closing the door and leaving.

'How do you feel Randy? Are you in pain?' mom asks after taking a seat in the chair to the bed's left.

'I don't feel perfect. After all, I just had surgery. I'm not in pain, they're giving me something for that. Mainly, I'm just tired' I answer.

'Are you hungry? Wilson said that if you are, you can order off of the soft food menu' mom offers.

'No, like I said, I'm mainly just tired right now' I say.

We all sit and talk for another half hour, before the pain medicine starts really taking effect. Without meaning to, I doze off while in the middle of a conversation with grandma.

* * *

A/N: Sorry it took so long to update everybody! I couldn't make up my mind about what this chapter should be like. Thanks to randyiscool for helping me get my butt in gear to finally make a decision. (And by the way, you weren't being rude at all by asking. I'd hate to wait this long too).

I will eventually return to the normal journal format, but the next couple chapters will probably be like this one and the past couple, since Randy won't be writing while he's in the hospital recovering.

Please R&R, and thanks for both!

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	42. Chapter 41: March 14, 1998

Chapter 41

March 14, 1998

I wake up when I feel someone squeezing my arm. Then I realize it isn't a person doing the squeezing at all. It's a blood pressure cuff.

'How do you feel?' mom asks when she notices I'm awake. She's sitting by the window and drinking a cup of something (coffee, I imagine, possibly juice).

'Would you believe me if I told you I was still tired, even after sleeping for the past…' I pause to look at the clock, and then finish 'twelve hours.'

'Taking into consideration the fact that you just had major surgery, yes, I would believe you' she says.

'Where's everybody at?' I ask after a couple minutes.

'Your brothers are in school, and your grandma is back at the house'

We sit and talk and watch TV for a couple more hours before mom and grandma (who arrived just a little while after I woke up) leave to go eat lunch. While they're gone, Wilson, who apparently is off midwife and/or nurse duty, judging by his lack of scrubs, stops by.

'So, how's the recovery process going?' he asks.

'Slow. And with these beds, it's a pain in the butt, literally' I answer.

'How are your brothers handling this?' he asks, sitting on the left side of my bed to where the adjustable table is hiding his face from the nose down.

'Well, superficially, they're alright with it. But I know for a fact that they're both really worried about me. Oh, and don't tell them I said that. They wouldn't want it to get around that they actually have feelings' I smile.

'You've certainly inherited your mother's intuition. Your dad would probably take their actions at face value' Wilson says.

'Thank you, but my knowing doesn't have anything to do with intuition.' I hesitate. Should I tell him about my out of body experience or whatever that was that I had during the surgery? I decide to go for it. I've said too much already to not go through with it. 'This is going to sound really out in left field, and you'll probably think you need to confiscate my pain medication when you hear this, but, I think I might have had…an out of body experience during the surgery.' I proceed to tell Wilson of the events that happened while I was undergoing surgery. I wait for Wilson to pronounce me insane and have me locked up in the psychiatric ward. He doesn't.

'Ah, an out of body experience, the sensation of floating outside of one's body that is often mistaken for a dream' Wilson says.

'But this wasn't a dream. It was too real' I protest.

'Oh, I believe you. I've had some out of body experiences of my own. Let's see, there was the one in Shanghai in '74, the one in Denmark in '81, and of course I'll never forget the one that occurred when I was undergoing surgery in San Francisco in October 1989 when an earthquake struck, and then…' he rambles.

'Could we?' I interrupt.

'Sorry' he says.

'So, do these experiences, whether they're dreams or not, have any significance?' I ask.

'In the words of the great political activist and feminist Gloria Steinem "Without leaps of imagination, or dreaming, we lose the excitement of possibilities. Dreaming, after all, is a form of planning"' Wilson says.

'I can see how that relates to my hearing Brad and Mark's conversation, since I'm now planning on moving my hiding place for my journals. But what does that have to do with my other "vision" for lack of a better word? I think the possibility of going on a road trip with the whole family, dad included, no longer exists' I say.

'I think, if you're willing to accept that your vision of being on that trip was a dream, it's not so impossible. Assuming that a dream was all you had, your vision could symbolize your hope to have a happy family once again' Wilson explains.

'Okay. Okay, so say I believe all that. Why now? Why have the vision/dream now? Why not have it two weeks ago tomorrow?' I ask.

'Some experts would say it all boils down to chance. I think in your particular case, it has to do with your surgery. The surgery, which, I think, you're hoping will help set some things in your life right again, could've easily triggered a dream/vision such as the one you described to me' he explains.

We sit there in (almost) total silence for a few moments, just listening to the beep of the heart monitor (or some other machine), thinking about what we just discussed.

'You know, it felt so good, so incredibly great to be there. To be there, with dad alive, and all of us a family again. I knew it was a…I knew it wasn't real, but I still didn't want to wake up. That life, that unreal life, was better than this one' I finally say.

'I'll check back in later. In the meantime, let me know if you need anything' Wilson says, standing up.

'Hey, Wilson, do me a favor. Don't tell mom about any of this. I don't want her to worry about me and/or my mental state' I say.

'Absolutely' Wilson says.

Were those dreams that I had? No. I don't think so. Like I told Wilson, everything was too real. It was all too damn tangible. I mean, I've never peed or drink water in my dreams before. I've never eavesdropped on my brothers in dreams before. (If anything, I dreamt of having no brothers).

That second vision of mine reminds me of a book I have at home. Now if only I could come up with a way to sneak it into here without mom knowing about it. Hmm…a challenge. That's what I need to get my brain back its thinking prowess.

* * *

A/N: Well! It only took me, let's see, over seven months to update. Sorry about that. I've been busy and drained of creativity for those past seven months.

I hope everyone who is still reading this will R&R, if there is indeed anyone still out there reading this.

Oh, and I hope the whole vision/dream/out of body experience stuff wasn't too bad, considering I basically BSed my way through it all.

Thanks for reading, reviewing, and sticking with me for forever.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	43. Chapter 42: March 16, 1998

Chapter 42

A/N: I have a slight problem. I wrote the last chapter four months ago. I now no longer know what book I had Randy referring to. (It was a real book, not just something I made up). So barring some miracle from God, we'll just pretend that book line doesn't exist for now.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor

* * *

Journal Entry for Monday March 16, 1998

God it's good to have this thing back, even though the IV makes it hell to write.

Journal, I promise you I'll start keeping you somewhere safer where people can't accidentally stumble upon you and all of your juicy little tidbits of information about my life.

Even though Brad and Mark already knew about my current hiding spot for you, I was still weary of divulging the place to mom.

Things are still going well, post-op-wise. The doctor just put me on three new medicines yesterday, which was okay considering these are small pills. My previous two kinds were pills large enough to choke a full grown dinosaur.

There has also been talk of taking me off the IV, as well as letting me go home as soon as next Monday.

God, listen to me. I sound like some old man sitting around, just talking about my medical situation.

It really would be nice to go home. I could sleep in my own bed, eat real food (albeit mom's food; yes, her cooking is better than the hospital's), and I wouldn't be hooked up to all of these noisy, annoying machines.

I just realized something: tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. It's yet another example of an occasion that reminds me of dad. He'd always have a Reuben and a green beer for lunch. (He dyed the beer using green food coloring, by the way. Not even dad is crazy enough to drink a beer that's naturally green).

Not even dad _is_? I can't believe I just wrote that. He's been dead and gone for more than six months now, and I still think of him in the present tense.

At any rate, I'm terrified of what the hospital food will be like. I swear to God, if there is anything green on my plate outside of spinach or green beans, I am not touching it with a ten foot pole, let alone my fork.

Lauren came by yesterday. I think my current condition (all the machines and bandages on or attached to my body) was a little more than she bargained for. I mean, we had a good time, but I think she spent the whole time trying not to look at my head. When I mentioned this, she said she was afraid she'd laugh at my bald head, and she didn't want to do that and make me feel bad. Even after we shared a laugh at my head's expense, I could tell she was still nervous.

I really shouldn't complain too much; things could be worse, i.e. I could be in more pain than I am. Most people would tell me to just take more medicine if I'm in pain, but there're a couple reasons I don't like to take pain medicine.

Because of my previous escapades. (And I'm not talking about Cadillacs here either).

I'm afraid I'll get _really _addicted, like having to have it to function, and winding up in rehab, et cetera.

Okay, I'm going to stop writing now. This damn IV is starting to hurt like a bitch.

* * *

A/N: There are two significant sentences in this chapter. These two will change the entire story.

Thanks to randyiscool for helping me find the motivation to write this chapter.

Please R&R.

As always, thanks for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


	44. Chapter 43: March 24 & 27, 1998

Chapter 43

Journal Entry for Tuesday March 24, 1998

It's good to be home. The actual discharge process started at 10 a.m. yesterday, but I didn't get home until 2 in the afternoon. Every time I started to doze off during those four hours, I'd get woken up, so I wound up sleeping for six hours once I got home. Because of that, I wound up staying up most of the night. Let me tell you, late night TV has nothing on primetime.

I kept telling mom that I would be fine home alone if she wanted to go to work today. In spit of all my insisting, she still stayed home. Normally I'd feel smothered by all the extra attention from mom (after all, you can't spell "smother" without "mother"), but in this case, it feels kind of good.

Brad and Mark wanted to stay home with us, but mom vetoed that idea on the spot. They may be truly concerned about me, but I'm glad she told them no. I don't think I could handle having mom _**and **_both of my brothers home with me right now.

Well, I'm off to enjoy one of my favorite activities: having mom change the dressings on my head. Whoopee!

* * *

Journal Entry for Friday, March 27, 1998

I thought I was over this crap. It's 3 a.m. and I've been awake for an hour and a half. I'm hoping writing this will put me to sleep. I've tried everything else.

I tried warm milk, I tried counting sheep, I tried reading, I tried reading an old calculus textbook of mom's, and I even thought about watching some old Tool Times, but decided against that for obvious reasons.

The thing of it is, I don't know why I can't sleep. I don't have any pain. I'm not really worried about anything, at least not the things that used to keep me awake.

Why can't I sleep, damn it?

I guess, for one thing, I don't feel right. I don't know how else to explain it, but I just don't feel like me.

For another thing, I can't turn my mind off. Even if I'm not worrying, I'm still thinking about something. It could be an orange juice commercial, our long distance carrier, whether there's really such a thing as non-dairy butter or what the hell goes into that egg substitute stuff you see all the time. I mean, it cooks and tastes just like real eggs!

Do I have enough arch support in my shoes? Is the truth really out there, or is that just a bunch of BS that only conspiracy freaks like Mulder believe in? Is the lone gunman theory plausible? What about the CIA/FBI/whatever other government agencies that have an acronym being in on the JFK's assassination, as well as Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr? Why do we drive on parkways and park on driveways? Why do we say it's cold as hell in the winter, and hot as hell in summer? Does hell have seasons now? Is that the devil's way of making sure _everybody_ has a hellish experience in hell? What does real mountain dew taste like? What does plain regular dew taste like? On and on and on it goes. I wish I knew how to meditate. I've heard that's good for clearing one's head. (Of course, my source is Dharma & Greg, so who knows, after all, you can't believe everything you see and/or hear on TV).

Sometimes I wish my life could be a sitcom, where everything is wrapped up in 30 minutes, or at the most 60. Life always seemed so great for sitcom families, like that one with Jonathan Taylor Thomas and Tim Allen in it.

Guess I'll stop writing now. I'm starting to get sleepy. Maybe I can go to bed now without wondering who Carly Simon thinks is so vain. The answer to either question: Who the hell knows?

* * *

A/N: This was originally supposed to be two chapters, but the first one was much too short.

I hope everyone stuck with me through all those interesting thoughts.

Please R&R if you're still reading this. We're starting to get close to the end of this one.

Thanks to everybody who has read so far!

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


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